


a rose by any other name would be just as kick ass

by astrotxt



Series: like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but not an overbearing amount this isn't glee), Alternate Universe - High School, Depressed Dean, F/F, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Trans Castiel, Transphobia, be the change you wanna see or w/e, mentions of dysphoria, side Dean/Benny, teenagers fumbling around gender and sexuality~, the slowest burn, there is sex here but there are warnings at the top of each chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 80,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotxt/pseuds/astrotxt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is one of those kids that's inherently ~mysterious to Dean Winchester, in as much as he keeps to himself, gets average grades, and wears an uncomfortable amount of layers for a resident of Lawrence, Kansas. Seriously, it's sweat-inducing just looking at the guy. So, naturally, he ends up joining their merry band. Feelings ensue, and that's really cramping Dean's style. </p><p>In which Dean thinks Cas wants to squash him like a bug, Anna pines for Jo, Zachariah sucks, and improper binding is a major no-no. </p><p>It's another typical hs!au, people, whaddya want from me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. don't call me dean-o

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holyhael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/gifts).



There's a room. In that room lies a table. On that table is a vase of flowers, but there isn't enough water to keep the flowers alive. What colours are the flowers? Are they blue? Are they yellow? Are you gonna get your ass up anytime soon, Dean-o?

If the brain could blue-screen, that's what Dean's would be doing right about now. Dean opens his eyes to see his wonderful, caring, lavender-scented,  _incredibly loud_ mother peering over him, her scrubs an offensive shade of green.

"Ma, did someone puke on you again?" he manages to blub out. 

She sighs and leans out of the door, shouting (shouting, Mom, really?) across the hall. "He's up!"

An echoed "hallelujah" concludes the Winchester household, that bunch of Judases (Judii? Judae? Who gives a shit). He can hear Sam spit into the sink and pulls the cover back over his head. 

"Uh-uh, not today, slick." Mother Mary, cruel and infinite, pulls the cover up and in a flick of a wrist, the room is flooded with sunshine. "Up and at 'em."

Dean groans, slides a hand down his face, then falls off his bed onto his ass, denting his dignity as he descends. 

Mary looks at him, presses a light kiss to the top of his head and shoves a piece of cooled toast into his mouth. "That's it, hon. Eat up, or do you wanna be late?"

"They say three's a magic number." Dean grins through crumbs.

"Not to Stanford, sweetie. Let's go."

Dean's stomach drops at the mention, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he chews dutifully and pulls on his Led Zepplin shirt, jeans that don't have mustard on them, and dad's jacket. Still smells like whiskey, the nectar of kings. He runs his fingers through his hair and gallumphs down the porch steps, easy breezy. 

He slides in beside Sammy and leans back. 

Sam wrinkles his nose as he lets out a sigh. "Did you even bother brushing your teeth, Dean-o?"

"Hey, don't call me Dean-o, those are Mom Privileges. Are you a Mom, Sammy?"

Sam pouts and crosses his arms. "I could be a Mom, right Mom?"

"Of course, honey, you can be anything you want."

"See?"

"Mom!"

"Don't clip your brother's wings, Dean, that's not nice."

Dean snorts and leans back watching the landscape rush by. The greens and yellows paired with the early morning sun set the world aglow, like the hills are made of gold. He can practically see the dew sparkling on the grass, much in need after such a punishing summer. Makes him want to sit out on the porch with a cold one and admire it for all its insurmountable beauty. It's some Tolkein shit, is what it is. 

Damn, does he love it here. 

 

* * *

 

Damn, does he hate it here. 

School is nothing but a trap, a petting zoo, where teachers prey on the weak-minded and pretend they're interested in your development when they just wanna get their commissions or whatever it is teachers get when they're class is mainly made up of Rain Man. And what's the deal with gum, anyway? Is it an offence to wanna possess minty fresh breath when cruising for chicks? Unbelievable. 

"Crowley get you on gum again?" Charlie pops up beside him as he walks out of (read: escapes) Devereaux's office. 

"How is it you're slicing and dicing up code for the good of your bank account and I'm the one that gets hitched up for detention?"

Charlie snorts in that knowing way that she does, the dork. "Because I'm a proper criminal. The kind that doesn't get caught." She pats him on the shoulder, "You want us to wait for you later or you good to meet us at the Roadhouse later?"

"And cut short the pining? I'll meet you guys there."

She smirks, turning on her heel and probably devastating half the female populus in a ten-mile radius. Even Dean can't swing that much magic, that's all Bradbury. "Later, nerd."

As he flicks the pink slip in his hand, he sets off to Biology, already five minutes late, probably. 

It's gonna be a long day. 

 

* * *

 

Detention is often made up of the same kind of people in every school. There's a safe consistency in that, a level of which Kansas's fourth best high school can only dream of getting in their test scores. Average is as average does. So, a little background: Dean likes people-watching. Not in a weird  _Rear Window_ kinda way, shut up, Sam, but in a "let's make up worlds about these random people to pass the time" way.

And, with consistency comes a necessity for expansion, so Dean's got some complex stories for this band of brothers. 

First off, Ash, the super-genius. Don't let his shameless mullet fool you, the boy's got some computer gams up in that melon. He built a machine that can replicate stem cells, but it got out of control when his alien sidekick Marvin got involved, testing the samples and contaminating them with his own bacterial colonies. The collective monster was a slobbering mass John Carpenter would wet his pants over, and despite the fact it destroyed his basement, the machine, and his Lynrd Skynrd record collection, they managed to beat it back and save Lawrence, Kansas from total annihilation. But, in the mess, his alarm clock was destroyed, so that's why he's always late. That, or he's too gentlemanly not to return the morning-blowjobs he gets from Marvin, and he likes to take it _slow_. 

Next up, Tessa. She's a normal girl, except she can walk through walls, Shadowcat-style. Her mother was bitten by a radioactive owl while she was pregnant, so the powers she was meant to get went from her to her unborn kid. However, looking after a kid that can slip out of bed in the middle of the night by literally falling through the floors was a bit of a handful, so she gave her up for adoption. Tessa's street-smarts grew from every foster home, and now she's in a halfway house with creepy Mr. Muerte who has a soft English accent. He's nice but wary, so her night-time expeditions require more planning. More time spent planning escapes mean she never gets her assignments done for English, and why Ms Mosely practically pre-writes her name on pink-slips. 

Victor's a toughie, but Dean's basically convinced now that he's an undercover cop, trying to bust up a pre-teen drug ring. That Lucifer in Sam's year is as devilish as his name, and he's probably the leader, but Victor's stuck on Dean as a suspect. Dean's just waiting for Victor to try and strike up a conversation so Dean can join in the escapades. Aaaany day now. 

There are a couple of other stragglers, but Dean's known Gabriel since forever, so it's harder making up his story, and Meg's downright too scary to people-watch. She's got the kinda stare that makes you wonder if demons exist. 

Dean's right in the middle of imagining Ash declaring his undying love to his extra-terrestrial beau and awkwardly trying to hide his own boner when a new voice wakes him from his reverie. 

"Castiel Novak, you're late." Ms Edwards drawls. 

"I had to take a detour to the nurse's office." 

"I see. Well, take a seat, get on with whatever."

Castiel Novak, otherwise known as Kansas's biggest mystery according to Dean. Sure, there's that dumpster that seems to whisper on the way to school, and sometimes the jungle gym at the local middle school looks like it's not there if you stand at a certain angle, but really, Castiel Novak is the real mystery. He's got perpetual bedhead, a scowl to rival grumpy cats all over the world, and he wears three layers in Kansas heat. Dude's got some kinda death wish, and yet he has a constant presence of considered calm about him. 

But not today. 

He stalks past Dean, then seems to think better of it before plopping in the desk next to him. Dean keeps his head down, not alerting suspicion, but he looks up now at the boy settled beside him. Still got that scowl on. 

He takes out his notepad and starts writing down notes for some class or another and, uh-uh, this is no time for productivity. Dean can't help himself, leaning to his left to tap Castiel on the arm with his pen. 

"Hey." No answer. That's fine, Dean's a big brother, he can handle annoying someone into talking. He taps again. "Hey. So, you c'mere often?"

That earns him a pained glare and Dean can finally see the huge bruise on Castiel's eye. "Shit, dude, are you okay?"

Castiel turns, rolling his eyes and wincing, "I'm fine, thank you."

"I guess I should see the other guy, right?" Dean nudges him, good-natured. 

"Considering they didn't make it to detention, you wouldn't be able to."

"What'd you do, send him to the hospital?" He nudges, aiming for the ribs, but Castiel inches away like he's contagious. Ouch. Moving on. 

"The teacher that reported me insisted I attacked Rafe, so they didn't receive any reprimand."

Dean lets out a low whistle. Like he always said; teachers are assholes. "That sucks, dude."

"Indeed."

The dude's clearly in his own space, but Dean's curious as all hell, has been since he heard his name called out in Art class, freshman year. 

"What kind of a name is 'Castiel' anyway?" he grins. 

Which, apparently, is the single worst question he could have ever asked ever. Castiel's eyes look like they're freakin' aflame and Dean's about to be smited (smited? smitten?)

"None of your damn business, asshole." Castiel bites out, turning (kinda unsuccessfully) around in his seat to avoid any further contact with Dean. 

Dean can't help but wonder why a name's got the guy so tender, but leaves it. If he had a black eye, he wouldn't be the friendliest pony in the pasture. 

He gets his head down and tries to catch up on some zee's before Edwards catches him. He totally doesn't snore. 

 

* * *

 

"Yo, Dean! Wanna round up these losers so I can get on with my shift?"

Jo Harvelle is a difficult girl to describe, especially if you've got a tendency to get a little flowery in said descriptions. She's... a bit of a hurricane. Maybe not a hurricane, she'd probably beat your ass six ways to Sunday if you called her a destructive force of nature. Irony's not so complimentary to a predisposition for knives. At least not if you wanna keep your pinkies. 

The Roadhouse is a diner-cum-bar-cum-stop-laughing-Charlie-you've-got-a-dirtier-mind-than-me. Until about ten thirty ish, it's a diner, where Ellen Harvelle mixes up the best milkshakes this side of the Atlantic, and dishes out advice that would make Yoda introspective. 

The place looks like a bar, hence the street cred, but honestly this place is just another place for his family. Another place where he can come to feel like he's a part of something, maybe. 

"I can't make any promises, Joanna."

She squares him with a glare. 

"I, uh, what? Who said words?" He fumbles, "I said...  _kumbaya_."

"Uh-huh."

She swings her hips as she walks away. He smirks and settles next to Anna Milton, who's too busy making moon-eyes at aforementioned not-hurricane to notice he's stealing her fries. 

"Stop stealing my fries." She slaps his hand away absentmindedly, still not taking her eyes off of Jo. 

Charlie snorts into her mint-chocolate milkshake (ew.) and shoves her tray over. 

"What would I do without your Good Samaritan-ing, Bradbury?"

"You'd hardly starve, your mom's cooking is amazing." she argues. 

He chuckles and stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth, because oh, does he not wanna go there right now. She gives him an odd look that says, 'I'm gonna leave this, but I'm red-flagging it'. Sometimes he wishes he couldn't read his friend's face like a Peppa Pig volume. 

So he distracts himself, like any normal seventeen-year-old. 

"Gonna eat that anytime soon?'

"I already told you, don't steal my fries, Dean."

Dean gives a leer, "Wasn't talkin' 'bout the fries, Milton."

Anna slaps him upside the head, because damn knows the pining needs a break at some point. "Dean Winchester!"

"What?" He smiles, ever the provocative jerk. Play the part, man. "Ugh, why did I have to be best friends with lesbians?"

Another slap. "Pan!" Anna protests. 

Charlie smirks and kicks him under the table. "'Cause you're a sucker for punishment. And because we're awesome."

They high-five over the table and Charlie nearly knocks over her milkshake. Jo cackles from a couple of tables over and throws her head back. Anna catches sight and she's a moth to a flame again, her cheeks almost as red as her hair. 

Fuck, he loves these nerds.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean arrives back home at nearly midnight. Sam's still up watching Al Jazeera, because he's the one with real smarts. He's gonna change the world someday, and Dean's already bursting with pride in advance. Not like he'll be lacking anytime soon. 

"Hey, dickweed, your eyes're gonna go square if you stay up."

"If you keep jerking off to skin mags, you're gonna get hairy hands." Sam turns around, ever the unimpressed tween. "See? We can all tell outdated lies that After School Specials told us."

Dean chuckles and Sam rolls his eyes. 

"Where's Mom? Shouldn't she be the one lecturing you?"

Sam chews his lips. Shit. 

"Is she okay?"

"She took another shift." He turns right around, kneeling into the corner of the couch. War bursts on in the background. "She thought you'd be back later, told me not to tell you, don't tell her I told you!"

Dean smiles, and ruffles his brother's hair. "Hey, I'm no snitch. Remember what Dad would say?"

Sam looks a little hurt, and  _oh yeah_. "Dean, don't be shitty."

He bows his head. "Sam-"

"I'm going to bed." He turns off the TV, people pleading for their lives swoosh off into void. Sam's stomps up the stairs with a solid pout on his face, and Dean feels like a bit of a jackass, but it happens. 

The kitchen looks bare. And not like that, don't get it twisted. His mom should not, by any means, spend her days in the kitchen rather than doing what she loves. She's a fuckin' superhero. She  _saves_ people. They may barf on her first, but that doesn't matter. She takes it all, she's a great role model, a great woman, a great person. 

But she's not here. 

And Dean misses his mom. 


	2. foot, meet mouth.

Dean’s been trying to keep his head down, no unnecessary mastication over here, when a pint-sized harpy attacks him at his locker one hallowed Monday morning. Hannah Schmidt, the kind of girl to make heavenly lemon cakes then side-eye you as you munch without closing your mouth, is a force to be reckoned with. A tiny, tiny force.

“Winchester!” She comes up from behind, definitely not startling the bag of chips Dean was keeping between his teeth onto the linoleum. “You want to tell me why you were talking to Castiel last Friday?”

Piercing blue eyes, like what the hell, bore into Dean’s skull and he doesn’t think he’s been so intimidated in his entire life. She’s like a tiny, mean owl.

“Just makin’ conversation, honey, s'what we do in polite society.” His lips tug up in the corner, usually that’s a ladykiller, but Hannah remains laser-focused on her pray. Audible gulp.

“Stay _away_ from him, he doesn’t need people like you clogging up his social calendar.”

“Why, you wanna keep him to yourself?” By the way her eyes narrow that was so the completely wrong thing to say. Foot, meet mouth. Now kiss.

Charlie saunters up from behind, knight in Star Trek armour, quirking an eyebrow at the definitely-not-hilarious display of Hannah (again, the tiniest bean) pinning a dude twice (thrice) her size to his locker with only a glare. “What’s goin’ on?”

Hannah whips around, her hair barely moving and she squints at Charlie. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It can if you wanna.” She winks. “I’m open to threesomes. Though maybe switch out Dean for Ms. Barnes and you got yourself a busy weekend.”

Clearly Charlie’s got Hannah pegged for the Bible-bashing crowd, but the way Hannah’s eyes widen and she can barely articulate despite her 4.0 GPA brain, there’s been some wires crossed.

“I- n-n-no…” She looks at Dean, who’s gotta throw up hands in surrender or else he’s getting liquified before he’s lost his V-card. “Just. Leave him alone.” She finally mutters, her eyes flicking down to avoid blushing further.

Charlie watches her march off to AP Calculus and admires the view.

“What’d you do, not call her back?” She says, a punch to the arm applied pre-emptively.

Ow. “No, jeez, Charlie, I’m a classy guy.” He stares after her and thinks of a completely different set of blue eyes, which- wait, what? “Are we late?”

The bell rings. “Not yet,” she grins, “you reckon I can get her number? I like ‘em feisty.” Dean snorts and ruffles her hair, much to her objected squawks.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the month is pretty standard fare, Dean flying as low under the radar as he can get away with at school, Anna trying not to have conniptions every time Jo gives her the time of day, and Charlie scoring chicks left and right. And. And no Castiel. He’s been weirdly absent, despite the fact that Dean’s been careful to heed Hannah’s warning. It’s just. Well, whatever.

It’s family night, Mom’s rare afternoon plus night’s off until a 4am shift that’ll leave her drooling on the Sunday funnies. It’s some of Dean’s favourite times, to be honest. Last month they built model airplanes together and things got heated over the ANTM finale, because sometimes Tyra is _way_ out of line to Sam’s faves.

This time, Dean designed an ice cream factory with Sammy, with four different types of ice cream (Häagen-Dazs, only the best for Winchester bellies), that cool sauce that hardens when it gets cold, and more toppings than you can shake a diabetes syringe at. That’s what his Mom says anyway, through laugh-sobs. Because she has the best sons ever. They’re halfway through their part four Studio Ghibli marathon (with subtitles because Sam’s a mini snob) when Mary starts getting teary again.

Dean tugs on her cardigan. “Mom, everything okay? We don’t have to watch Mononoke again.”

“Yeah, the forest spirit bit is the worst, we can skip over it!” Sam chimes in.

Mary sniffs and laughs, “No, my loves. Just… what she does for her family. It’s. It’s very touching.” She shakes her hand at them to turn back to the screen.

Dean and Sam make a wordless exchange and nod almost simultaneously. Sam pops up onto the couch and cuddles Mary while Dean fetches the photo albums.

“Hey, Ma, I thought ugly babies were meant to get cute, what happened to Sammy?”

Sam shouts and they all crowd in and watch as Mary turns the pages. They get to a photo of Dean at the science fair back when he was Sam’s age, proudly showing off his first remote-control car. It was a sleek black, modelled after the Impala. He’d spent months on that stupid car, and it had only won him second place.

Mary points at the picture then, fond.“That was when I knew, y’know?”

“Knew what, Mom?” Sam chirps, squeezing around their mother’s waist like a limpet.

She looks up at Dean like he’s her entire world, sliding a thumb over his cheek. “That your brother is destined to do great things. Like. Like build the first spaceship to Saturn!”

Sam scoffs. “Mom, please, he’s gonna wanna make it out of the solar system at least.”

Mary ruffles Dean’s hair and he leans into it. “My two bright boys.” She kisses the top of Sam’s head and yawns.

“You wanna head to bed, Mom?”

“No, no, let’s stay, I want to know what happens.”

Dean nods and the pit in his stomach gets heavier as he sits down to watch the forest get overrun by humans that don’t know any better. That destroy without thought. For the first time he sees himself as the villain and can’t shake it off no matter how hard he tries.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next weekend finds Dean at the Bradbury’s door, smiling widely as Mrs. Bradbury smuggles him in like a secret. He’s about to hand over the peanut brittle he made last night when she shushes him and gestures over to Charlie and another girl talking in hushed tones. Which. Hey. “What the hell, Charlie, thought it was Winchester special to- ”

He finally catches sight of the girl, and not just any girl either, Hannah freakin’ hates Dean’s guts and gives him evils at every opportunity Schmidt. Admittedly, that’s a lot of middle names, but there’s a lot of unfounded hatred there too so.

“Thought it’d be a nice time for you two to bond a little.” She pats the space between the two of them and Hannah already looks like she just sold her out for a bit of silver. “Come. Sit. Enjoy.”

Dean grumbles, but it’s Indy so he sucks it up. He can barely concentrate though, because to his right Charlie is barely containing her sniggers and to his left Hannah seems to be thinking over the tactical advantage to chewing her own arm off. All in all, it’s distracting him from Nazis having their faces melted off, and that just ain’t acceptable.

“Hey. Um. Hannah. Wanna help me get some more cheese balls?”

“What, George Lucas ain’t enough for ya, Deanie?” Charlie says through a mouthful of glacé cherries. Yuegh. Again, whoever programmed Charlie’s food tastes must’ve spilled something on their notes.

“All right.” Hannah concedes, standing up and walking off without helping Dean up. Fine.

He walks after her and she fetches the cheeseballs from the pantry and- hang on, how does she know where the cheese balls live?

“How do you know where the cheese balls live?”

Hannah blushes and moves away to get a clean bowl. “N-none of your business.” She sighs and places a hand on her hip. “What is it that you want?”

“I wanna know what your problem with me is. I’ve stayed away from Cas- ”

“Cas?”

“Y-yeah.” He blushes because well… it just rolls off the tongue easier, okay?! “I haven’t seen him the whole of October, and I didn’t even get a chance to apologise for whatever it is I did because I don’t know.” He breathes heavily and realises that was not what Hannah was expecting, if the slight deer-in-the-headlights look is anything to go by.

“Oh.” She finally says.

“Oh?”

She picks at her fingernails and pops a cheese ball into her mouth. “He, um, works at the thrift book store at the mall on Sundays.” Crunch.

Crunch. “So he’ll be there tomorrow?” Crunch.

She shakes her head furiously. “Don’t talk to him. He hates it when people talk to him at work.”

“Okay.” He holds his hands up, completely at her surrender. He’ll concede, he knows when to quit.

But. Sammy needs to get some new textbooks, right? 

 

* * *

 

 

The mall smells like sadness and burnt coffee, and that’s probably because it’s one of the shittier malls in Lawrence. Sam has practically logged twice the distance Dean has due to excited puppy syndrome, where he has to double back every time he realises Dean’s lagging behind.

But Dean’s just… freakin’ nervous. Which is weird because he hasn’t felt like this since he asked Ellie Daniels out in 4th grade and he nearly peed himself when she said yes. This. This is so not even in the same ballpark so what the hell.

“Dean, they’re gonna close if you don’t pick up the pace!”

Dean checks his phone and curses under his breath because why a Sunday, why a thrift book store, why is Dean even doing this?

Sam nearly inhales his tongue when he sees the dust-trap that is _Bell Books!_ , the single most pretentious place 18 - 24 year olds could hang out at. Dean loses sight of Sam in 0.8 seconds, and no one is surprised. So why not get lost here? It’s as good a place as any.

Dean starts looking over the Margaret Atwood, anything his mom hasn’t got yet that he can take once she’s done with it, and overhears Sam talking animatedly about- well, something or other, at his age it could be anything from foreign affairs to the Power Rangers.

“Sam?” This was a bad idea. Stupid, bad, terrible. Now Sam’s gonna get kidnapped by a paedo and it’s all gonna be Dean’s fault and just ‘cause he wanted to talk to-

“Excuse me?” A deep voice comes up from behind him.

Dean startles, jumping back a little to see Cas- Cas _tiel_ staring at him like he should be committed.

“J-jeez, dude, warn a man, why don’t ya?”

The guy gives him a look to level forests. “It’s a small, quiet book store. You’re hardly inconspicuous.” Sam comes running after Castiel and beams up at him.

“Dean! Have you met Castiel? He’s the freakin’ coolest, he’s gonna lend me his dystopia collections!”

Castiel looks bashful, smiling so damn fondly at Sam it squeezes Dean's ribs a little to watch, then squints back up at Dean.

“Are you..?”

Dean looks between Castiel and Sam and snorts at Castiel looking so perplexed.

“Yeah, s’my kid brother, Sammy.” He ruffles Sam’s hair and is promptly slapped away. “Dude, you need to cut your hair, you look like a fucking girl.”

In the tiny space between bookshelves, the change in the air is electric. Dean looks up to see that same thunderous look on Castiel’s face, and he simultaneously wants to run away and hide and peer a little closer to figure out why.

But Castiel just turns to Sam and smiles. “If you want, I can send them on through the high school library. You can visit anytime, and just ask what I’ve put on hold. I’ll start you off with some basic Orwell and Huxley, you’ll enjoy the contrast.”

Sam beams again, little sunspot that he is. “Thanks, Castiel!” He looks snootily up at Dean with a ‘you should be taking notes’ look, and Dean snorts.

Sam goes up to pay at the cashier, Tracy Bell looking lovely as ever, but when he goes to thank Castiel, he’s vanished.

Shit.

 

* * *

 

 

At his desk at home, an attempt to finish his algorithms for robotics club goes unfinished and unloved as Dean opts instead for pen and paper. Or, rather, his laptop, because c’mon people, we have electricity now.

He’s got this story going so far, about a guy saving the world from an emotionless enterprise hell-bent on controlling people and preventing them from living their lives. Everything’s white and sterile and cruel, and the one bright thing in this world is this guy.

Dean knows what he looks like. He knows who he’s based the hero on, anyway. He just can’t bring himself to describe him. The words flow too easily.

He closes his laptop and makes sure his solder’s turned off three times for posterity and paranoia’s sake.

He doesn’t dream of angry blue eyes. He doesn’t.


	3. journey to the centre of sweaters

_Its head rotates on itself, a roiling being that’s bound to creep out the most stoic of heroes with at least an audible shudder or two. That’s how this stuff works. But James, oh no, James is beyond stoic, beyond posturing. He’s fearless._

_The monster rights its third head and stalks towards him slowly, prey meet predator. Its face twists into something that’s probably meant to resemble a grimace._

_“Puny little robin, are your little wings clipped?”_

_James returns the pathetic jab with a glare._

_“That’s not my name, asshole,” he musters enough vitriol to spit in its face before-_

Three knocks blindside Dean into almost cracking his laptop screen in half he closes it so fast, and Mary steps across the threshold. And now she’s probably thinking of counsellors she can wrangle a favour from.

“Everything okay, hun?”

Dean looks over at her, eyes a little withdrawn, not their usual starry selves, and he feigns a smile for her.

“Just, uh, stress, I guess,” he mumbles, deftly turning over papers as subtly as possible. Which, y’know, impressive. A little applaud wouldn’t go amiss.

Mary smooths down the edge of the bed, habit, before settling onto it gingerly. Dean can feel the conversation coming on, like electricity in the air before a storm. It sucks, and he knows there’s gonna be tears before lunchtime.

“Sweetheart, you know I love you, but you’ve got to get a move on with this application.”

“Mom, I don’t think it works like that- ”

Mary’s firm though, and if she’s anything she’s as stubborn as Dean. He got it from somewhere, anyhow. “Dean, it’s for your own good, you know we can’t afford two sets of college tuition without landing either or both of you in some serious dollar signs, and not the fun kind.”

“I know, but…”

“But, what, honey?” She walks over, runs a hand through his stupid hair on his stupid head and he can’t help but stupid lean into it, like a stupid cat because he stupid needs this. “No man left behind, remember? You’re gonna reach the stars, and your family, the people that love you, we’re gonna help you get there. But we can’t do that if you’re not focused.”

Dean murmurs (purrs, shut up) because his head’s still ringing with wrong. So he lies. “I get it, Mom. I’ll try harder, I promise.”

It’s satisfactory, a better outcome than usual, less wailing and less unresolved family issues laid out like a raw nerve to bruise.

He opens his laptop back up, the document asking if he’d like to Save or Exit. The cursor blinks like a newborn baby. A newborn baby asshole that hates him and doesn’t want him to succeed in life. There’s a wall and he can’t quite get over it.

The written word inspires writers, right? Maybe a trip to a book store would help, the smell of curling paper might get the aspidistras flying. (What? He reads.)

 

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know why his feet itch so much on his soles but Dean’s not ready to walk into _Bells Books!_ quite yet. Castiel’s look of disgust flashes in his mind, which, wow, so not helping with the whole motivation thing, brain.

Sliding into the fiction section, he creeps. Not his proudest moment, but there ya go, Dean’s bein’ a creeper. He doesn’t even really understand why he’s so intent on apologising to this guy, whether it’s because he doesn’t like being an all-around jerk or his quest to be likeable to Castiel has become a distraction for the rest of his life or because the dude smells like. Like home. Wait, what no not that last thing. Shut up.

Hunter S. Thompson is giving him some serious side-eye to fuckin’ man up right now, so Dean steels himself and forges forward, onwards! To the cashier!

His boots clomp and suddenly he’s self-conscious that this is probably one of his less-than-stellar ideas, up there with putting Nair in his brother’s shampoo bottle that he shared with Mary and those J-Crew polo shirts that sit crumpled at the back of his closet. B

ut he’s ready, he’s there, the familiar desk empty. He boinks the little bell, calling whoever’s there, calling him to Dean.

Except Tracy Bell is very decidedly not Castiel-shaped and what the hell? 

“What’s up, it’s Dean, right?”

Dean’s palms slick and it’s all he can do not to dash without a word. Charm is a little stuck in his throat, so a hmm of agreement comes out more like an impression of the cookie monster. Smooth, Winchester.

“Uhm,” she spares him, “anyway, you need me to ring anything up?”

He looks around, the store empty (it’s a Sunday, this is prime-time for wasting money, right?) of any other employees, and he turns back to her.

“Is um, Casteel here?” he bluffs.

“You mean Castiel? He’s at home, it’s his day off,” she crosses her arms, squinting at him. “You’re not causing my colleague any trouble, are ya?”

Does he have “asswad” written across his forehead or something? “No, I uh, I need to give him some homework. He missed History last week, was gonna give him my notes.” The lie falls out neatly and Tracy’s eyes widen and she smiles. Her whole face lights up when she does that. It’s nice.

“That’s so nice of you!” She hurries over to a post-it pad and scribbles down his next destination. “Tell I said hi.”

He nods and flicks a salute at her, taking the post-it note from her hand. They’re soft and they smell like mango.

Dean turns around, practically seeing tumbleweed roll past him and snorts his goodbye, the address burning in his pocket. He makes a mental note to warn Castiel about his colleagues and their too-trusting natures.

 

* * *

 

 

Forty blocks later, and Dean’s standing outside Castiel’s house wondering just what he’s really doing here, bothering this dude on a Sunday afternoon when he wants nothing to do with him. A fruit basket would’ve probably sufficed but… there was something in his face that struck Dean like an oil well, and he’s got questions spewing up everywhere, it’s a huge mess, oilier than a Turkish wrestling match. Which he has totally never looked up ever.

So he knocks on the door, four times for good measure.

He rocks on his heels, looking up at the net curtains covering the windows of the front of the house, terraced and kinda sad-looking.

He hears a clack of glass bottles behind the door and a man answers, can’t be more than forty or something. His eyes are glassy and he reeks. Dean almost throws up on his threadbare slippers.

“Afternoon, sir, I’m lookin’ for Cas?”

The man sways dangerously, holding onto the doorjamb. A hip-flask clinks in his dressing-gown pocket, as if the alcoholism wasn’t already glaringly obvious. But then again, Dean knows how drunks revel in overkill.

“Cas?” he whispers.

“Yeah, I’m from his high school. Just wanted to…” he trails off, looking inside the house. No way. No freakin’ way does Cas live here. He can’t. It’d break Dean’s heart if he did.

“There’s no Cas, here. Just. Me and Claire.”

“Claire?” Dean’s hoping for an imaginary friend as a reply.

“My daughter.” Well, shit.

Dean shoves his hands in his pocket. Tears sting in his eyes and he quietly curses the smell of mango.

“Well, you have a good day, sir.”

The man grumbles and backs away, and Dean’s almost happy. The ebb of needing to apologise, of his quest, that nag that was crawling underneath his socks, it’s gone now. Castiel doesn’t wanna be found. And that’s okay.

He doesn’t notice net curtains drawn back to watch him walk away.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Winchester!”_

Dean swerves around just in time to get an armful of Charlie, giving him a big hug.

“Woah, is it my birthday? Am I dying?”

She leans up to whisper in his ear, “Not by _my_ sword, handmaiden.”

Before he can question that, Hannah is coming towards him, and he’s flinching in advance. What did he do this time?

But there’s no storm clouds, no crash bang wallop, no final Dean Winchester parade, trumpets flaring and banners waving. Instead, she looks just… concerned. Not about him, that’d be the most terrifying thing in the world, but concerned, whatever.

“Did you go to his house?” Dean looks from her to Charlie, who’s doing little more than watching and shrugging at appropriate times. Gee, thanks.

“Dean. Answer me.” And _there’s_ the fury. “Did you go to see Castiel at his home?”

“Wanna try speaking a little less formally, Spock?”

“I’m not playing around, Winchester.”

“Okay, yeah, I saw him.” He scratches his neck. “Wasn’t exactly successful, though, I just… fuck, Hannah.” He looks at her, really takes in the unforgiving greys and linen and wonders what kicked her in the ass that morning. Every morning. To make her so angry. “I just wanna tell him I’m sorry for being an ass, why does everyone think I wanna hurt him?”

Hannah looks back to Charlie, wary and squinting. Charlie smirks, pulling Dean around, hobbit that she is, managing to get an arm around his neck and squishing their cheeks together.

“Hannah, babe, look at this adorable face. Don’t you wanna stuff it with pie and love?” She grabs his cheeks and squeezes, making his already pretty full lips duck-facey-er than ever. “And, if you help my boy out, you’ll never have to hear from him again.” She gives an over-the-top curtsey and Hannah totally falls for it, rolling her eyes to hide the blush high on her cheeks.

She looks from Charlie to Dean, fondness morphing into a scowl before his eyes.

“Bring him a jar of honey.”

She turns and flips her hair, walking a little faster because, hey, the bell’s about to ring and time waits for no teen drama.

“Honey?” He calls after her with a smirk.

“Manuka!” She calls back, scattering the freshman that she bursts out beside.

Charlie slaps him on the back (probably slipping a disc, but hey that’s Charlie) and grins at him, totally way too proud of herself to warrant just how smug she looks like she’s feeling.

She hands him a piece of paper with… the same address Tracy gave him on it.

“What the hell, Charlie?”

She shrugs, and looks back at the writing. “Maybe you can’t read properly,” she offers, “Or maybe his dad’s hella protective.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he mumbles.

“Dean…” Charlie’s voice is soft, so soft, and he hates how it breaks off a chunk inside of him. Metaphorically, duh. Otherwise that’d be cause for more concern than poetry.

“So, you gonna tap that anytime soon?” He points off to Hannah, or rather the vacant spot in the middle of the hallway where she blasted through like a comet.

She shoves him back into their easy banter, and he tries not to feel lead in his stomach, like his intestines are gonna fall out of place.

 

* * *

 

The net curtains are still swaying, and now Dean’s lookin’ closer, it looks like a fan in there. Sweat management seems pretty up Castiel’s street considering his propensity for layers. Because he’s an enigma. A stinky, sweaty enigma.

He raps his knuckles on the door again, new fire in his chest. Like a forest fire. Shit, how can it be so hot in November-

“Why are you here?” Castiel says through the door, voice even gruffer than usual. Should he have flowers? Suddenly the absence of flowers feels like a failure on his part.

“I just came to, to apologise?”

The silence stretches like so much taffy, until the door locks slide and clink and rattle to reveal- well, Castiel. And he looks. Um. Well, his hair’s even more of a bird’s nest than usual, but he’s only in a couple of jumpers, judging by the way his chest looks a little lumpier than usual. He’s clearly been staring too long when Cas looks ready to fucking slam the door in his face, and what?!

“Dude, please, I’m sorry!” He pushes forward with a grunt and slams his nose into the door. Cas looks wide-eyed down at him but furrows his brow and like a freakin’ landslide, he’s inside the fortress of solitude. If solitude were beer cans and faded pulp fiction.

Castiel shuts the door, all of the locks and chains done back up and he’s breathing hard. Dean tries to tip his head back, splayed out on the floor, whilst hopelessly gauging Castiel’s expression from below, which, judging from the blood about to ooze out from his nose, was probably not good. Although, another suspect stain on the carpet probably wouldn’t be noticed much.

The other guy walks over to a small box on a dusty shelf and pulls out a band-aid and an ice pack, gently tipping Dean’s head back and pressing the cold pack to the bridge of his nose. His eyes are so close, not even looking at him, and Dean feels all the breath in his body freeze with his nose.

It’s one of the weirder situations Dean’s been in, and he feels like his heart’s gonna rumba on out of his chest, join dancing with the stars, probably get voted out at the semi-finals.

“When did you figure it out?” Cas asks him, voice breathy but weirdly higher than normal, like he’s about to cry.

Dean furrows his brow and winces, and damn that was stupid, nose out of place, asshole. “I get the feeling I don’t have anything figured out, like why your dad thinks he has a daughter when you don’t have a sister, and why everything I seem to say rubs you up the wrong way and what exactly you think I know about you and now I’ve got a broken nose and nothin’ to show for it so!” He gets out. Huh. Rant time, apparently.

Castiel pauses, and Dean doesn’t open his eyes, he can’t really, it’s too cold.

“He’s not my dad.”

“ _That’s_ what you take away from this?”

Cas takes the pack off his face and leans back on his haunches, letting out a sigh. He hands Dean the band-aid and his eyes are so much softer, like _Dean’s_ the mystery, which is so laughable it’s the fourth scrooge.

“Seriously, dude, I’m sorry, whatever I said clearly fucked you up, or not, you just seemed mad and I- ” he fumbles, “I’m sorry, fuck.”

Dean’s ready to get the fuck out of there, he’s said his piece, and now it’s out there, out there in the world and everything and oh god, why is it so _hot_ right now?

He gets to his feet, groaning from the pain in his general face area.

“Do you even know what you’re apologising for?”

“For… being an asshole?”

Castiel lets out a frustrated sigh and Dean has never wanted to be further away and yet closer than ever at the same dam time and the on-coming migraine is not his most desired thing right now.

And then the totally unexpected happens. Like. Dynasty finale unexpected.

Cas takes off his sweater.

He takes off his sweater and reveals a t-shirt with two very undeniable lumps on his chest. Breasts. Cas has breasts. This is. This is a new development. Dean feels like he’s malfunctioning and top of that list is how come Cas trusts him enough with this. He feels like he’s gonna start weeping and he doesn’t even know the guy.

“Oh.” He finally lets out. He’s very determinedly looking at Cas’s feet, which, on closer inspection are probably what some would call dainty. (Dainty? Is his brain an Austen novel? Actually-)

“Oh?” Cas offers back, crossing his arms over his chest/breasts/they-which-shall-not-be-looked-upon. “You really didn’t know?” His voice wobbles, but Dean hears the iron underneath and his hands itch by his sides.

He looks up, right into Cas’s eyes, blue and shiny and holding more than Dean could probably fathom so he won’t bother trying.

“I didn’t.” He says firmly. Cas walks over to his couch and sits down, auto-pilot running the show. His palms are down on his knees and he breathes heavily.

“Oh,” he replies, his voice quieter, reedier. “Are you going to tell everyone now?”

And that smacks Dean right in the centre of his chest, like the gentlest gun-shot. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Cas looks back to him, his fists clenched. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“You have, like the plague, and it’s fine, it is, but I don’t know what I did, and we’re in the same freakin’ year, dude, we’re in fifty classes together, and it’s like you’re a ghost, and, and it wasn’t like that before I opened my goddamn pie-hole, and I really just wanted to apologise.”

“Why? What- what have I done to warrant this?” He’s out of breath for some reason, a wheezing bellow that precedes Dean’s shocked silence.

He doesn’t know. What has Cas done? Why can’t Dean stop thinking about him, why does he feel like he owes the guy anything? (Everything?)

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “You seem cool, I guess.” He claps Cas on the shoulder, because that’s what manly men do, or something. “Don’t worry though.”

He turns around to leave, shoving his hands in his pocket and feels the neglected gift.

“Shit, I almost forgot…” He pulls out the jar of manuka honey and presents it to Cas, remaining nonchalant despite the other guy’s slack-jawed expression. “Lucky my ass didn’t crush it, although that’d be a pretty sweet demise.”

Cas takes it in his hand like it’s made of crystals, and lets out a breath. Sharp, quick. “Wouldn’t be nice for your ass though. Manuka tends to be slightly more bitter,” he smirks and he’s not trying to hide his chest anymore. Dean feels something unfurl in his stomach (anxiety? gas? who knows) and gives Cas a dazzling smile, a Winchester special.

They stand there, Dean looking at Cas, Cas looking at Dean, it’s a whole lot of looking going on here. Yup.

Dean’s neck starts to itch, an indicator that maybe he’s out-stayed one of the most bizarre visits he’s ever, um, visited. He shoves his thumb over his shoulder, definitely not blushing as Cas squints at him. But as he goes to unlock the first chain on the door, a firm hand grabs his elbow.

“Thank you,” Cas says, tentative, Dean can hear the fear in his voice and he never wants anyone to put it there ever again. “It’s all good, Cas,” he turns around slowly, “I mean, if you need some dude to talk about… um. Dude stuff…” It’s like cotton is mitosis-ing in his mouth or something, what the fuck.

Cas tilts his head, “Dude stuff?”

“I’m gonna go. But yeah, okay, yep,” Dean fumbles before fiddling with the locks and charging back out of the door.

Cas is standing there with the strangest look on his face, looking at the honey before realising the door is open and the whole street can see him in just his shirt, so he waves quickly at Dean and slams the door closed.

Oh god, this was so weird. But... Dean feels lighter than he has in months, and he leaves with a little skip in his step. 


	4. jawbreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spot the buffy reference, y'all

There’s an indeterminable time between when Dean gets up the next day and when he finally gets to school to see that Cas has decided to turn up today. Indeterminable because someone inside him stutters whenever he sees the guy, probably leftover guilt for being rude to him paired with holding onto what feels like the biggest secret (maybe second-biggest) that he’s ever had to keep.

Sleep hadn’t been all that present last night, and frankly it had Blue Eyes McGee all over it, namely what it meant that the dude had boobs. So, research had been researched courtesy of google and sneakily siphoned coffee (a habit borne from having a single mom slash doctor. Mockter?), and Dean had given himself a crash course on trans people and how to be the best possible cis dude ever (cis pronounced like the first syllable of scissors, and that alone had taken thirty-seven minutes to find out).

Obviously he was not a complete fount of knowledge, but it was a start and now he had a better understanding of how not to be a total and complete Douchebag(TM). That included a list (he had a list, things had gotten pretty serious around 4am):

  * don’t use gendered slurs (Mary had already lectured him on this but he’d gotten a slightly better understanding of why in the wee hours)
  * don’t assume people’s genders
  * don’t assume men have penises (penii?) or that women have vaginas because that’s something called… bioessentialism??
  * Laverne Cox is some kind of goddess that everyone worships
  * Cas has boobs but he’s a dude, and he is the only authority on who he is (Dean knew this already but… it was good to confirm)



Among many other rainbow-coloured things (who knew there were more letters hidden in the plus sign?) he’d found a really cool forum where people talked about it and he’d managed to ask drowsy questions and got his world turned upside down.

Needless to say, tiredness didn’t even scratch the surface of how he was feeling, and Tired Dean meant Overly-Affectionate Dean, so he’d given Cas the goofiest of smiles and sloppiest of waves before walking straight into Zachariah Adler, PhD-ridden and incompetent asshat otherwise known as the vice-principal in these here parts.

Instead of pushing past Dean, he looks down his nose at him, before noting the drool that’s now adorning his shirt. Oh, wait, ew.

“Is this par-for-the-course in the Winchester household, boy?” He sneers.

Dean wipes his mouth, before catching sight of Cas holding back the kind of hollow fury he thought was reserved entirely for him.

“Just thinkin’ of your lesson plans, sir,” he smirks, and no, not his brightest moment, but it puts a private twitch of the lips on Cas’s face, and that’s worth the pink slip shoved into his chest.

He gives Cas a silent salute, more present, as he leaves before he gets in any more trouble just to get him to smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Lunch is one of those communally unremarkable times in the day where Dean can surreptitiously stare at Lisa’s boobs without anyone really commenting on it since everyone knows he stares into space when chowing down on whatever’s dished up.

Yet, when Cas and Hannah pass by, despite generally joining the Alternative crowd behind the bleachers for a cigarette rather than a snack, Charlie, in a throwaway phrase, makes the day a whole lot more interesting.

“Yo, nerds, come sit.”

Hannah immediately catches Cas by the scruff of his neck, and Dean notices that he’s squinting a lot today, at Dean and in general, before he’s unceremoniously led to their table. Anna chews thoughtfully on her food and holds her hand out to Hannah. Hannah looks fucking delighted that someone else seems to, quote unquote, have manners in their group, but that’s just the Miltons and their propensity to stifle all rebelliousness until it can’t be held in anymore, hence: Anna. Some things are harder to shake off than others.

“You know the gang-” Charlie starts.

“Are we a gang if there’s only three of us?”

“Shut up, Dean, of course we are. And now we have five, plus Jo, so six,” she sticks out her tongue, “Math, bitch.”

Dean grimaces as he bites into his ravioli. “Dude, wish you wouldn’t use that word.”

And just like the that, the table’s silent.

“D-Dean?” Anna probes, before putting the back of her hand to Dean’s forehead, “Are you okay?”

Charlie sniggers, “Yeah, what’s with the PC Police?”

Dean shrugs, “Whatever, forget it.”

“Oh, no no no, tell me, Princess, what’s the deal?” Charlie teases and Dean snorts.

“It’s just that… well, I mean, you’re a girl so I can’t tell you shit about it, but ‘bitch’ is a derogatory term for women, and even though it shouldn’t have gendered connotations, it does, so you calling me a ‘bitch’ to insult me implies that you think being a girl is a bad thing, which. Y’know. Isn’t cool.”

Silence resumes, except weirdly louder this time. He can’t even hear anyone breathing, except Cas’s blushing is probably louder than anything. Anna’s spoon even clatters to the table. It’s some comedy trope nonsense.

“Or whatever,” he dismisses, shovelling more pasta into his pie-hole (man, he could do with some pie right now) and wishing he had slept so that he could avoid auto-pilot wikipedia spewages.

“Well, fuck,” Charlie laughs, “that was a mighty shut-down, Dean-o, didn’t think you had it in ya!” 

Conversation resumes and Cas is looking everywhere but at Dean, and now Dean feels like the biggest weirdo. That is, until Cas slides over further on the circular bench so that they’re almost touching elbows.

“Very impressive outburst, there,” he notes, twirling a piece of wilting spinach around his plate, “how much sleep did you get last night?”

Dean knows he’s blushing, but hopefully it’s coming off as a… cool blush. “If it’s less than an hour, does it count as sleep or a power nap?”

Cas snorts in response, but everything gets too loud because he’s not saying what Dean knows he wants to say.

“Have you told anyone?” 

He’s not looking at Dean, too busy boring a hole through cheap plates, probably doesn’t wanna set Dean on fire with his laser-focus.

“No one,” he finally grumbles, and the ravioli isn’t so much a package so much as a carefully dismantled mess on his plate. “And I’m not gonna, so… I mean I get that I- I don’t get it, but.”

He has nothing else to say, so he keeps eating until the roaring in his ears stops. But out of the corner of his eye he sees smile, and it’s a real small one, but it’s just so… It looks like a weird baby between a sunrise and a soft cat. It’s nice.

 

* * *

 

 

He, Cas and Hannah all have English together after lunch, and Hannah quickly scrapes her food off her plate and goes to talk to Charlie so Cas and Dean are left alone. They all walk to class, but they’re in two separate groups, Team Talk and Team Silence.

Once they get inside the room, though, and Dean goes to his usual space, he taps the seat beside him for Cas because. Well, because they’re friends, right? That’s not a weird thing to think right now, is it?

But. Well, Cas just looks at him funny and sits next to Hannah like it’s where he belongs and. And that’s fine. Whatever.

When Spangler sits next to him instead, (shirt tucked in, goddamn dude, do you wanna get beat up by Walker today?) and places his inhaler on his desk as well as an array of post-it notes and pens and pencils ugh.

During class, however, Cas keeps leaning back and looking at Dean, and it’s semi-adorable because he clearly thinks he’s being sly and well, if Dean weren’t so hyperaware of Cas, he probably wouldn’t notice, but now he’s ready to jump like a live-wire.

He snatches a post-it note and scribbles on it, graphite scoring into at least six sheets below it, and passes it behind Spangler to Muriel who passes it to Hannah. Before she can unfurl it, Cas pries it from her fingers and opens it, the rustle of paper too fucking loud and-

“Novak, are you passing notes in my class?”

Everyone turns (well, okay, not everyone, no one actually freakin’ cared about Roy’s stance on Roman imperialism so most people were asleep) to look at Cas, Cas who clearly prefers anonymity over infamy yet manages a hand at both, and the dude is struck with a case of oh-fuck-itis. So Dean does what he has to.

“I passed it, Roy,” he calls out, already getting up from his seat and gathering his things.

Roy looks down his nose at Dean and just huffed a little.“You’re still takin’ Novak with you.”

Cas flinches and pauses, resolute in the whole not looking at Dean thing.

“Did you hear me stutter, Novak? Get your ass down t’Devereaux or it’s double,” he grumbles, scribbling both their names on one slip. Dean slips it from between his fingers like a drop, and waits at the door for Cas to join him.

 

* * *

 

Cas hasn’t said a word since they left, and Dean’s skin crawls. Every time he tries to do right by Cas, it seems to fucking backfire. Was his life a sitcom by the name of Murphy’s Law or some shit?

He hears the sound of Cas picking at a loop in his sweater (his third from the centre, the damn jawbreaker) and turns to the guy a little in the ergonomic torture device.

“Sorry about…” he waves uselessly, “yeah.”

Cas snorts, moving onto greener pastures of fidgeting, like digging the dirt out from under his nails. There’s little grime but he digs regardless.

“If Roy hadn’t, Zach would’ve, so really I should thank you for beating him to the punch, so to speak.”

Slime incarnate brings itself to mind, as well as the morning of his general skeeviness. “Why does that dude have it out for you so bad?” He teases, “‘cause you skip out all the time, you punk you?”

He scratches behind his ear and Dean notices for the first time the healed scars on the lobes. “Actually, he actively encourages it,” he turns to Dean, all smarm and grace, “did you know that he messes up the counter so it doesn’t note my absences?”

“Dude that sounds like a sweet set-up.”

“Yes, having a transphobic relative in the public school system does have its perks.”

Tyres screech inside Dean’s head. “Hold up, relative?”

Cas turns back, smarm replaced with anger. “Beloved Zachariah, second cousin thrice removed,” he sniffs, “used to adorn me with dresses and dolls and call me a fucking princess.” His eyes are bone dry, but the tears have moved to the throat in order to conceal themselves, Dean knows only too well, “Typically he assumed it was cruel rebellion and as soon as high school started, it’s been hell ever since.” Cas curls his fingers like they aren’t his and Dean’s breathless with it.

Zachariah and his face and his pathetic prejudices are firmly near the top of Dean’s shit-list. And that is a place no soul should hope to be on.

But duh, ‘course he doesn’t say that. Instead, he claps a hand on Cas’s shoulder, running his thumb over the joint, before letting go and launching into a story about how he once got stuck in an elevator with his baby brother and he nearly suffocated when Sam replaced oxygen with methane. It gets the desired effect of Cas nearly weeping with laughter, and that sunrise is back and melodic and a little honking and life-affirming.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s throat feels sore from laughing, even once detention’s over and he’s settled back at home. Sam was talkative the whole car ride back, waxing lyrical about this girl called Madison that bit him and he’s like 96.8% sure that he’s in love. Dean shakes his head and scoffs until Sam gets on with his homework while he’s got dinner on the stove.

The back door rattles with a jimmying key, and a wild Mom appears, bearing leeks and sour cream chips, the ridged kind that Sammy likes.

“Boys, boys, boys!” she exclaims, settling everything down on the table, “Smells good, boy-o.”

She leans over to kiss Dean on the side of his head, but taps his arm with two fingers, one, two, three, four, and he knows he’s in for it once Sam’s in bed.

“It’s beef stew,” he says quietly, and after that it’s a blur of dinner and conversation and Sam relaying the greatest love story of the 21st century to their mother.

The lights are dim and Mary’s finished brushing her teeth alongside Sam, whilst Dean’s waiting patiently on the couch to be Talked To. Sure enough, she descends, like a freakin’ Picasso, except angrier and with a couple more edges.

“You missed robotics again this month,” she starts, and Dean lets out a little air. The couch wheezes beneath him as he leans back. “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m not drinking again, I swear.”

“I know you aren’t, you weren’t exactly subtle last time, sweetheart,” she chuckles, a more patient mother than he deserves, really, “I’m just wondering if there’s anything else going on with you. A girl maybe?”

Dean snorts, an unbidden picture of Lisa Braeden popping up in his brain before he can stop himself. Those cheerleader uniforms should be given Nobel Peace Prizes, to be honest. “There’s this one girl, really tiring me out, by the name of Dee, last name Tention.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of her, “You telling me you got tired after detention? What were you doing there?”

A picture of Cas with messy furrowed brows and three jumpers on comes equally unbidden, and he mentally swats it away, “Theorems,” he lies, “real complicated stuff.”

She gives him a look, the serious kind, that tells him this ain’t over, and at this point he can’t care anymore. It’s a little like the ground’s quaking beneath him but everyone else is saying it’s nothing.

“Get some sleep,” she instructs, landing three short kisses on his cheek before launching off into the ether of the house.

Dean stays sitting, stays contemplating. The dark isn’t comforting, it just doesn’t say much.

 

* * *

 

_His eyes were bright green flashes and he had the rugged good looks one would expect from a grade-A Kel-49 hustler. James had no choice but to try and trust him, to an extent anyway._

_The other young man had a smile like a razor blade, and it was as infectious as it was cutting._

_“It will grant partial invisibility?” James asked, the instructions still bloodstained._

_The other man grinned, drawing blood with sharp teeth across his bottom lip, “Jimmy, baby, them’s the best KayEffEms this side of Prysos. You know I’m good for it.” James nodded, his heart flopping like a bass on a boat. “I could use some company.”_

_The man’s laugh was as cruel as his beauty, “Sure y’could, but I’ve got greener things to look out for, babe,” he stepped a little closer, tipping James’s chin to the side and tasting just under the bolt of the jaw. “Humans ain’t my style, but they don’t call me Smith for nothin’,” and his smile widened without deepening, “I’d work you over until there was no breath left in your body. I spoil enough beautiful things.”_

Dean snaps out of it. Jesus. That research really took a toll on him. He deletes everything, everything he’s written that night, tries to slow the palpitations that he can hear in the side of his neck.

When his phone vibrates, a goddamn buzzsaw in the middle of the quiet Saturday morning when Mary’s out and Sam’s still asleep, he sees the poop emoticon next to the heart emoticon which indicates Charlie’s attempting to make contact.

_impromptu tv maramara. dr. sexy season 1 back to basics, when u over_

Dean rubs a hand over his face. He loves Dr. Sexy, M.D. with all his heart (got the boots to prove that shit) but season 1, in comparison to the beauty and depth of season 8, is short fries and totally not worth breaking his stride in his story.

_y 1, y not 7_

He’s diplomatic at least, Charlie’s fave is 7 due to the influx of the spunky yet sexy lesbian Dr. Mulligan at the same time as the kind-hearted yet sexy Dr. Loretta, which was more representation than the show had ever dared before.

_hannah banana hasn’t seen it before_

Oh no. That’s… unacceptable.

_i’ll be there in 20_

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Dean hadn’t thought beyond educating the newbie and had arrived in half Zepp shirt (which was a little too big for him), the ironic yet not ironic three wolf hoody Anna had splurged on for him last Christmas, and his yummy sushi pyjama pants.

So, when Cas answers the door, Dean doesn’t so much die inside as- no, wait, nope, dying inside, that’s the most accurate description.

Cas’s lip turns up a little. “A more restful night, I hope?”

Dean ignores his own blush and barges through to see Charlie’s fringe still in its roller and Hannah in her usual stiff clothes. Dean also notes that Cas is wearing the same amount of layers he usually would, and Dean’s gonna break out in a sweat if he looks at him too long.

“You gonna take any of that off, dude?” He asks before his mouth has a chance to process fucking anything, and Cas’s eyes widen.

Charlie whoops from her place on the sofa, before continuing to instruct Hannah on where the DVD should go, because Hannah teased her about still having a VHS player, apparently.

“I got dibs on the lazy boy,” Dean calls out.

“No way, Hannah’s the honorary guest, she gets it.”

Dean thumbs back to Cas, “Cas is an honorary guest, too!”

“Yeah, which is why you get last pick.”

Dean groans and Cas opts for the middle seat, snuggling into the plush blanket, regardless of the fact he must be a fucking furnace right now.

Dean settles on his left after Charlie claims the right (Dean can’t help but smile knowingly to no one but himself) and the theme song starts playing, obnoxiously synth-y from its early days.

Charlie and Hannah, despite being far apart, practically create a bridge with their bodies, and Cas smirks too, another knowing smile, this one looks like the sky after a storm.

“When dya think they’re gonna announce it?” Dean murmurs.

“Oh, no, they’re both completely oblivious,” Cas insists, “Hannah hasn’t even kissed anyone yet.” He ponders a little, “Well, except for me, and I don’t count.”

Dean’s startled at that, and he only just notices how close they are to one another. His eyes dip to chapped lips, and his skin’s tingling all over from just how husky and gravelly Cas’s voice is. He shivers, despite, as previously noted, Cas is practically the sun he’s emitting so much heat.

Cas continues to ask Dean questions throughout the season, and they even make it to the finale before Charlie’s yawning and Dean offers to take everyone home.

“No, thanks, Dean, I’ve got it,” Hannah says, but for the first time in a while, it doesn’t sound like she wants to publicly castrate him, which is nice.

Cas nods his thanks and takes his heat with him. Dean doesn’t think about it.


	5. it's a no-no, i tells ya

Cas becomes a fixture at lunch, as does Hannah (although completely in a friend capacity, Anna not-so-subtly points out to Dean with a wicked smirk). So lunch continues to be boring in a companionable and slightly more squashed way, and it’s nice. Dean rubs shoulders with Cas and Cas starts going to school more often, like he’s borrowing some of his confidence.

It’s made a subtle difference, but Cas has a more defiant _walk_ these days, like the lightbulbs down the corridor are fizzing and ready to burst at his presence. Yet when he’s with the rest of their group, he’s just… _Cas_. And it’s awesome to finally have another dude around; he’d lie down in traffic for Anna and Charlie, but it’s not the same. Cas is a quiet but sure staple at his side, and he’s sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are probably the most interesting, because when they have English after with Hannah, it’s a toss-up whether he’ll sit with Hannah or him. When he sits with Hannah, he’s fidgety and can’t quite focus on much at all. It’s worse (better _so much better_ ) when he sits next to Dean and they discuss Vonnegut, Plath and Walcott (turns out Cas is a total poetry junkie, who’d’a thunk?) while Roy drones on and on (and on and on…) casually murdering any desire Dean could’ve potentially possessed to crack open Dickens and get his Victorian epic on.

Speaking of epic, Lisa hasn’t worn a bra today, and it’s a HannahCas day so he’s free to ogle without feeling like a sleaze bag. Except. Well. Somehow Lisa’s smooth tan back doesn’t hold Dean like it used to and it’s weird that that in itself doesn’t bother him. Instead he finds himself gravitating back to the bird’s nest of Cas’s hair and jesus, when’s the guy gonna get it cut he looks fuckin’ ridiculous-

“Winchester, you wanna stop staring at Novak and read out the next passage please?”

Snickers suddenly abound and Dean’s blushing like a politician in church. He clears his throat and tries to figure out what Pip’s fuckin’ deal is and why the expectations are so great, and Lisa turns and whispers the page number to him.

She smiles and she’s so lovely and… yep, nothin’. Weird. He smiles anyway, and reads out the passage while he feels everyone’s eyes on him. Fan-friggin’-tastic. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Roadhouse is packed as hell, so Anna’s hard pressed for a good view and almost falls off the end of the booth as a result. Dean laughs as he pulls her back by her art coat, and she fusses that he’s messed up her, quote unquote, ‘look’.

“Whatever, just because my love life is in shambles, doesn’t mean I can’t live vicariously through my favourite sugar buns,” she props herself up on her hand, simultaneously statuesque and soft, “Charlie Barley, what’s the morning glory about Young Glinda?”

Dean snorts, “Ain’t you heard the news? Charlie’s moved onto greener pastures, that just so happen to wear peter pan collars and sticks up their asses.”

Charlie’s too busy on her phone to bother with their unimaginative teasing, but she manages a, “Hannah’s straight as a baseball bat, nerds,” before she’s back into Tron.

They fix her with a glare, and even with their combined heart-stopping eyes she doesn’t so much as glance their way.

Dean gives up just in time to watch Jo drop literally her entire order on the floor, three burgers, three sets of fries and *gasp* _not the cherry coke floats_.

He’s readying himself to get up (whether to whip out a trumpet and pay tribute to fallen heroes or help Jo out, only time will tell), when a wild Kevin appears out of no where. He’s a Senior too, all AP classes, all the time, and yet he’s always hanging out at the Roadhouse with equations that would probably make Einstein weep.

Anna notes the commotion, of course, and rushes over. “Jo! Hey, dya need help?” she offers, breathless (probably with the way Jo’s ponytail is showing off the sheen of sweat on her nape, the long line of it elegant).

But oh no. “It’s cool, man, me and Kev got it.”

Kevin gives a little salute, and although Anna’s smiling, the way her back just tensed up like a harp string makes Dean think, with a little bit of unremitting glee, that something wicked this way’s coming, and he does not mean in the fun way.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas hasn’t missed a single day since he talked with Dean about Zachariah’s douchebaggery, so it’s both unsurprising and totally un-fucking-fair that when he walks past Zach’s office he sees Cas gettin’ some talkin’ to, audio or no. Zachariah’s that special kind of asshole, the type that can undermine a peron's entire life in a sentence or a look, and smile all the fuckin’ while.

Dean can see right through the glass and the fake-concern on that smarmy ass’s face, and Cas looks like he’s gonna tap his foot right through the floor.

So Dean does exactly what he is _honour-bound_ to do.

He unbuckles his jeans, slow as possible, right in front of the glass. Cas catches his eye once he’s got his zipper down, and his eyes go wildly wide, gorgeous and ocean-blue. Wait.. Uh. Anyway. Cas’s eyes dart down to Dean’s crotch and now it’s super obvious what’s going on and he’s shaking his head to the point of mild blurring.

Zachariah turns to see what the hell Cas is paying attention to just as Dean’s wiggled out of the denim that’s collected at his ankles. He shakes his ass, once, twice, then curls his fingers inside the waistband of his boxers.

The sound of Zachariah charging out of his office is music to Dean’s ears and quick as a whip he’s hiking up his jeans and dashing down the corridor, gasping as he gets into Ms. Mosely’s history of civilisation class. The asshole pants, face red as beets.

“Winchester! In my office, _now_.”

But Dean called a mental “sanctuary!” as soon as he reached the door jamb and for once Mosely’s not gonna bust his balls, especially not for a pompous shitface like Zee-man.

“Mr. Adler, this is my classroom, and unless you want to explain to Devereux why you’re pulling Mr. Winchester out of class for no apparent reason, I’d suggest you scoot.”

Zach’s snorting like a fuckin’ bull and Dean might just propose here and now as Cas walks through the door, nonchalant as ever (wait, he takes this class?).

“Dude, you take this class?” Dean leans over to whisper, sweat still eking across his hairline.

Cas smirks, the little asshole. “Ms. Mosely said I had the opportunity to make up lost time from last semester if I come to this class.”He looks up and waves to their teacher and she just nods quietly, like she fuckin’ _knows_. Judging from how awesome she is, she probably does.

“I’d be delighted to tell Frank how Winchester disrobed right in front of me, Miss Mosely.”

Shit.

He turns to Mosely who’s looking more exasperated than that time he got caught making out with Ellie in the sports supplies closet during Trig. She raises one eyebrow.

She then proceeds to scribble onto a pink slip and slides it onto Dean’s desk like an answered prayer.

“Does that suffice?” she asks, more than unimpressed. “Or do you need to continue disrupting my class?”

Zachariah looks like he’d like to disrupt the school from its foundations but he knows when he’s beat, and it is _beautiful_.

Dean’s shrugging it off within a second as soon as he catches sight of Cas’s soft little smile, and it’s all fucking worth it in the end.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yo, Cas, need a ride?”

Dean totally didn’t run outside as soon as class was over to make sure he didn’t leave with Hannah (without him). And he… totally isn’t already… out of b.. (woo _wait a minute)_ breath.

“Are you alright Dean?” He asks, faux-innocence ramped up to eighty.

Dean snorts ungracefully, “Whatever, dude, I know you’re gonna say something about the pop’em’s, but you can pry ‘em from my cold, dead, lifeless, probably sausage, fingers.”

Castiel’s head tilts like Dean’s mysterious again, and Dean straightens up.

“Need a ride?”

“You said that already.”

“Well, I meant it,” Dean grins ear to ear, and it all ends up with Cas sitting in the impala like he belongs there, eternal shotgun.

Outside passes by, as does the time in relative silence. Cas seems very concerned with what’s goin’ on out there, which is important, Dean suspects, probably witches he’s scouting for or wolves flying across the plains-

“There aren’t any wolves in Kansas.”

Uhhh. Wow, he really needs to get a lockdown on the whole thinking out loud thing. “Y-Yeah I know that, I just…”

“You like to note the magic between the lines of reality," and he says it so gently, so matter-of-factly, that it lodges inside Dean's chest. 

Well. What? “That’s one way to put it, I guess,” Dean nods, keeping his eyes on the rolling tarmac.

Cas seems to fidget after a while, wriggling like his chest is too small for him to breathe, so Dean takes a minute and pulls over. Cas looks across at him like a deer in the headlights, and promptly looks back down to his lap.

“Dude, what’s with the ants-in-pants situation?” Dean asks, and it’s meant to be a simple question, but since when was anything in his life simple?

Cas shifts one more time before sighing and surrendering (finally). “My binding’s bothering me.”

“Your binder? Do you need me to help with anything?”

Cas looks back to Dean like he’s grown an extra head and been extra oblivious about it. “You’d… do that?”

Dean shrugs. “Sure, dude.”

So before Dean can scream _'Magic Mike_ ', Cas whips his t-shirt off and Dean just about stops himself from gasping. Oh **_HELL NO_**.

“Cas… are those… _bandages_?”

He looks at Dean, as if he’s the idiot at hand, “Yes, I need them to bind my breasts- ”

“I know what you’re using them for, you _ass_ , what the hell, why don’t you have a proper binder?!”

Cas looks down at his bound chest, like there’s nothing wrong, _Jesus on a goddamn graham cracker_ , and comes back to Dean, giving him a shrug (a fucking _shrug_ ) in reply.

“Cas, you have to have a proper binder!” And now he’s looking all smite-y again, but Dean’s not backin’ down from this one.

“We can’t exactly afford fancy new binders every five minutes, Dean, I’m saving up for HRT, and you should know what _that_ is since you’re obviously such an expert in the trans experience.”

Aaaaand somewhere along the line he'd crossed from fucking worried right over into Doucheland(TM) hadn’t he? Classic Deano.

“Dude, I’m sorry, but binding with bandages is gonna fuck with your health, you need to get a proper binder. Binding with bandages, you’ve gotta be so careful, I’ve seen pictures!” he insists.

Cas seems like the sort to keep arguing the fact, but he just looks tired. “Thank you, for your concern, Dean.”

They spend the rest of the car ride in silence, right up until they reach Cas’s house.

They sit there for a while, Cas not actually moving to get out of the car, Dean not pushing him to. He doesn’t… want to leave on that note. He just wants to help. But he’s gotta suck it up first.

“Cas, I- ”

 _Oomph_. Before Dean can utter another word he’s got an armful of Cas, clutching him close with his face buried in Dean’s shoulder, like he fits there. Cas pulls back just as Dean’s booting back up and putting his arm around Cas’s shoulder.

“Thank you, for your concern, Dean,” he repeats, this time with another of those soft smiles, and Dean’s rolling away with a smile on his own face. 

 

* * *

 

 

The solder is the sweetest little gadget that Dean owns, close first with his first gameboy, and there’s nothing he loves more than tinkering with a shitty motherboard for some windows ’98 monstrosity with Charlie instructing and Sam making bored noises in the background.

“When can we go outside, Deeeaaaan?” he moans, flopping onto Dean’s bed, ever the drama queen.

Charlie ruffles his hair, “Once we’re done with this very important surgery, Sammy.”

Sam huffs, but just crawls under Charlie’s arm and snuggles her belly instead. Thank god he’s not too self-conscious at this age, it’s adorable/perfect black mail material for future reference.

He’s been tinkering for a while when the comfortable haze is broken. “Deeeaaan,” Sam whines.

Dean doesn’t bother looking up, he’s almost done with the buses. “What’s up, kiddo.”

“Mom wants to know if you’ve done the application, yet,” and Dean’s hand slips just a little to the left and burns a hole right through the circuitry.

“Mother- ”

Charlie hisses, “Dean, cmon,” and Dean can’t fucking c’mon, is everyone gonna be riding his ass until he’s dead? Does he get a moments peace, ever? Does he?

“Sam, just quit askin’, okay?” he snaps and Sam’s shrugging but he can’t shrug the natural puppy-eyes that have floated into his face.

Charlie is very unimpressed, so what else is new? “Dean, you gonna come clean to your Mom, or are you just gonna let her think her boy’s in NASA while you graduate from Columbia?”

Dean buries his face in his hands, and lets out a definitive, “Myfahdahnah…”

She pats him on the shoulder, “I feel you, bro.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is following a huge gap you guys, unfortunately uni and depression decided to hand my ass to me on a silver platter simultaneously, but i promise i'll be better, this chapter felt a bit filler-y but i hope y'all enjoy anyhow!! <33


	6. loose hips sink ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! WARNING! ACHTUNG! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ONE (1) CASE OF INTENTIONAL MISGENDERING AND ONE (1) MENTION OF PAST PARENTAL NEGLECT! PROCEED WITH CAUTION. Thank you and have a nice day~

Groggy… so groggy… Dean wakes up (if you can even call it that when there’s still a chance that there’s drool on his face) to Sam rocking his shoulder.

“Nnnnwha?” he groans, because even big brother duties shouldn’t be required on a freakin’ Sunday morning.

But despite the extreme noogying that’s about to take place (just… five more minutes..) Sam’s looking unnervingly bright, even for a thirteen-year-old.

“Mom’s here.”

Dean’s slightly more alive, much to his brain’s protests, “Here here?”

“She’s making breakfast! Waffles, Dean, _waffles!_ ”

Dean’s out of bed before he can even see straight and as he bounds down the stairs, there she is, all bright smiles and blonde hair, and there.

They’re sat at the table, Mary shovelling as many eggs into her mouth as she can, giggling through the yolk like a kid at Christmas. Dean knows for fact he has a goofy smile on his face watching her massacre breakfast because Sammy’s got the same one on his face. These moments of unity, family Winchester, the three of them against the whole world (and, apparently, eggs) is more than Dean could’ve ever asked for.

Once she’s finally done with that, sitting back in her chair with a decidedly regretful groan and a chuckle, she surveys her boys.

“So, any fun stuff I’ve missed out on?”

Sam elaborates on his adventures in love and little leagues, while Dean’s playing with his waffle, until he hears Sam say:

“… and Dean’s been spending so much time with Cas, it’s a wonder he gets any work done.”

Mary looks at Dean with a tilted head. “How come I haven’t heard about this Cas?”

Dean shifts in his seat. “He’s, uh, he’s just a friend from school.”

“He works at the thrift book store, you know, the one in the mall?” Sam helpfully supplies, while Mary does that thing where she purses her lips and tries to read between the lines of her earnest youngest and surreptitious eldest. Dean reckons she’ll hire a PI once Sam’s in full swing of puberty.

“Well, I’d like to meet him,” she says casually, pausing to drink some OJ. “Unless that’d be a problem, sweetheart?”

Dean reviews his options. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s so damn nervous about Mary meeting Cas. He knows she’s the most caring and understanding person in the universe, but she’s from a different generation. Different generations don’t get stuff sometimes. He doesn’t wanna put Cas in a situation that makes him uncomfortable… but then again, he still wants to see the guy, and Mary wants to meet him so. So Dean chooses the selfish option.

“We can invite him for lunch?”

“We can have salmon!” Sam cries, despite the fact he had five helpings (count ‘em) of waffles just ten minutes ago. Kid’s like a machine. “I can run out and get some chives!”

He’s so excited about the possibility of more food that he doesn’t notice Mary narrowing her eyes at Dean, like she knows exactly what he’s up to (which… she totally can’t).

“You done with your application, yet?” And there it is.

Dean laughs it off a little, “Heh, about that…”

“Dean…” she starts, and that’s never good.

“Gotta pick Cas up, I’ll get some juice on the way back,” he says, draining her glass and giving her a quick peck on the cheek before darting out into the impala, into freedom.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s noticed recently that the drive to Cas’s is not only scenic, but vaguely inspiring, like a twanging visual soundtrack. There’s little details like raccoon families chewing on an old surfboard (wait, what?) and tossed-out rolled-up architecture blueprints (Dean snatches those out of the trash, Anna might like ‘em for collages) among the expanses of wasteland and urbanisation that Lawrence can offer for absent thought.

So when Dean rolls up to Cas’s place, having texted him on the way and receiving a banana emoji in response, he expects a ready and/or waiting Cas on his porch. Instead, he has a grand total of zero Cas.

He waits a bit before texting again (doesn’t want to come off desperate… why, exactly, is a mystery itself, because he is getting kinda desperate for some lunch), before he decides to just go and meet Cas at the door.

As he raises his knuckles to the wood, however, he hears bottles smash and the sound of a man sobbing. He’s ready to barge in, consequences and bills for doors be damned, when he hears something else.

“Why do you dress like that, Claire? Honey- ”

Cas’s voice is high and reedy with tears, and Dean’s rethinking the whole barging business. “Stop _calling_ me that!”

“Uncle Zach’s been… and Naomi… just…”

He hears Chuck doing that horrible high sound, like a dying animal’s whine, that usually precedes much snot and professes much grief. Dean wants to move away but it’s like overhearing a natural disaster. He feels like a monster, but then again what’s new these days?

“Where did my little girl go?”

It’s so quiet but it rings like a gunshot, even through the door. Dean moves away. He shouldn’t’ve been here, shouldn’t’ve stayed when he knew what was happening.

He backs away further, almost at the impala, almost home free, when Cas slams his door behind him, rattling the panes of their fragile windows. Dean turns to see his friend, crying and wiping the evidence from his face. Except he sees Dean and it’s like rabbit in the headlights to the nth degree.

Before Dean even realises what his feet are doing, he’s charging towards Cas and gathering him up in his arms, pressing him so close to his chest he thinks they might fuse together. Cas shudders and lets out another wracking sob (Dean feels it between his ribs). He grips tightly onto Dean, an anchor in the middle of the street, although who the anchor is remains unclear.

He kisses the top (well, side) of Cas’s head, like he used to do for Sam after a nightmare, except Dean can’t wake Cas up from a shitty Dad. Dean pulls back after a while, tear stains on his Henley (wait is that _snot_?!), to smile big at Cas.

“Wanna come over for lunch?”

Cas lets out a surprised laugh, but nods anyway. He slides into the impala before Dean does, as he should.

 

* * *

 

Just before they go in, Dean looks over at Cas, who’s sporting more of a drowned rat than a presentable associate for his Mom.

“Dude, hold still,” he murmurs, leaning over and raking through Cas’s hair, wiping his face with his sleeve ungracefully, and pulling his sweater around so it looks like it fits and-

“Aw, man, you look adorable! Mom’s gonna love you,” he grins, staring at a red-faced Cas with even more ruffled hair and a straight sweater, complete with a withering glare on top.

Cas wipes his face a little, “I’m going to murder you.”

“After pie?” he reasons.

Cas seems to agree to that with a shrug and they stagger inside the Winchester household. Right into the mouth of chaos.

The smoke alarm is going crazy, and the smell of burnt fish and vegetables billows through the air. Mary’s fanning at the oven while Sam’s got 911 ready to dial. And Cas? Cas just wades into the foray, rolling his sleeves up like he belongs in there. He gently moves Mary aside, covers his mouth and opens the oven. Smoke billows out properly and he unlatches the window, letting it all out. He grabs the oven mitts from the hook they sit on, takes the burnt food and runs it under the cold faucet. Other than some petty sizzling, the salmon calms down.

The smoke clears enough for Dean to see the gobsmacked looks on Sam and their mom’s face, and he feels his face light up when Cas holds his hand out.

“Hello. I’m Castiel. I have the number for the Pizza Plaza, if everyone would like to order in?”

Yeah he fits in pretty well here.

They spend the remainder of lunch waiting for pizza, talking, letting the pizza guy in (Cas _pays_ who _is he_ ), then chowing down on some choice slices. The conversation is kept light in many respects, just Sam Mary Dean family talk about nothing in particular while prompting Cas for various interjections. He makes Mary laugh eight, count ‘em, eight times. It’s pretty magical. Until Mary starts in on the Real Talk.

“So, Castiel, what’re your plans after graduation?”

Dean lets out a low groan, waiting for the inevitable shrug/apathy that a genius like Cas probably reserves for times of That Question.

Except Cas just beams, teeth gleaming, eyes bright, the whole shebang. “There’s this amazing art school in New York, Tisch? It’s got the perfect course, illustration,” he’s gushing, since when does Cas gush? “Ideally, I’d do a BFA, it’s, um, Bachelors in Fine Arts, in Illustration, take some interning gigs, probably have to do some advertising at some point, but mostly taking commissions on my blog and stuff until I get out onto a legitimate platform,” he ends on a sigh ( _a freakin’ sigh_ ). “The goal is to create a series of graphic novels, but I’d need a writer that’s, how do you say it, on my ‘wavelength’?”

Mary nods in some serious approval. “Well, sweetheart, I’d love to see some of your work, sometime.”

Cas blushes and Dean’s honestly never seen him look so elated. He catches Sam’s eye, who’s got that annoying knowing look on his face for some reason.

Then he fulfils his quota of Annoying Sammy-isms for the day: inappropriate comments.

“Nice job sweetening up the parents, Cas,” he snorts, just as Mary goes back inside to refill the pitcher. Cas tilts his head at Sam, curious smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve been reliably informed I can be charming,” he says, and thank god he didn’t read that as… well. Anything else. Dean’s saved from an early grave yet again.

 

* * *

 

_Any doorway would have been good, but the three of the same shade was suspicious, and James hadn’t the time nor the patience. Both were arbitrary in the modern age, both were in short supply._

_“Got a light, sweetheart?” James heard that drawl again, and turned to see…_

_“Smith,” and even the name sent a shiver up his spine, “here to gloat?”_

_Smith raised an eyebrow and dropped from his HoverCloud(TM), getting all up in James’s personal space. As per usual. James rolled his eyes._

_“Unless that’s a photon blaster in your pocket, I’m not pleased to see you.”_

_Smith let out a chuckle, his green eyes bleeding purples. “As a matter of fact…”_

_He whipped out a lovely model, Photon 5000KL, and placed it into James’s hand. “Don’t say I never got ya nothin’.”_

_James snorted, “Bet you say that to all the Homebots.”_

_Smith’s eyes hardened, “You’re not a Homebot, baby.”_

Wait, wait, shit.

Dean fumbles around looking for his notes on this chapter, because exchanges between Smith and James have gotten way too frequent that it’s throwing the whole plot thing out of whack.

His Dora the Explorer journal (what? it’s got lots of pages! and it is _educational_ ) is under his pile of crap somewhere in his closet. So he goes on a mission. This is what he gets for going off script.

As he pushes past the roller skates (not a phase, a lifestyle), and the boxes upon boxes of memorabilia start to incite his curiosity.

He pulls out _holy shit THE WATERMELON SEEDS._ A beautiful symbol of how he and Anna met. Home Depot was a depressing place in general, but when you’re eight and you _should_ be outside playing swords with your little brother instead of picking between two doorknobs that look _exactly the same Mom!_ , it’s even worse. Anna had been there with her dads, and, despite the fact that she was around Dean’s age, she looked happy as Larry (who Larry was, Dean still had no idea). At first, he’d thought it was a girl thing, to make the best of a bad situation and pretend things were okay (his Mom had done that, for years but- well), but then he’d noticed she was dropping things every time her dads weren’t looking.

Dean had gone over, Mary still figuring out if they _really_ needed any more lawn chairs, squinting at the price labels as he wandered. He’d looked at what she’d placed down and saw that it was a watermelon seed. Curiouser and curiouser. He followed her around the whole Home Depot, right up until the moment he 1) bumped into her and 2) Mary came and scooped him up, fretting and hairs all standdy-uppy on her arms. Weird.

“Dean Winchester, I swear to- Oh hello,” she’d greeted Anna’s parents, and she was a towering ray of sunshine once more, “I’m Mary.”

As the three made small talk, Anna had noticed Dean’s fist clutching all her watermelon seeds. “What the heck are you doing?!” She’d hissed, “Those are meant to be everywhere!”

Dean had chuckled, asking “Why?”

She’d explained that the watermelons would grow if she left them out in the sun, and then the employees could enjoy some sweet fruit that summer, but Dean had ruined it so what were they going to do now? So Dean had wriggled out of his mother’s arms, grabbed Anna’s hand and they’d started flinging watermelon seeds every which way, chased breathlessly by three squawking adults. They’d been friends ever since, and he can still chuckle at the sheer _thought_ of it. He brings out the little packet he’d saved and pins it to his wall. He decides rummaging is the name of the game until he finds Dora (¡vamos amigos! ¡aventura le espera!)

Next he finds his Digimon(TM) trading cards, deeply unpopular at the time in comparison to Pokémon. Charlie had been the only person that would play with him, even into middle school, where it wouldn’t even be about collecting anything new, but making up new stories with what they’d had. It was exciting, it was the fan that made the flames explode, Michael Bay-style, in terms of his imagination. Charlie was brilliant, enabler and queen all in one.

Come to think of it, actually, Dean couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he and Charlie had become friends. He doesn’t think there was actually a pre-Charlie time, and if there was, he doesn’t like to think of it. Dean hadn’t had many friends when he was a kid, he’d had Mom, and later on Sammy, and- others. Their family, if that word can be stretched that far without snapping apart.

Focus, Dean, focus on the mission of writing this stupid thing, and to write the stupid thing, the stupid journal needs to be stupid found- _oh no way, his first robot_.

Dean whiles away the better part of an hour that day, just picking stuff out of his closet, reminiscing, then getting back into the fray, only to be distracted again moments later. Five minutes alone is dedicated to donning the Dr. Sexy cowboy boots and strutting around, practicing his best Blue Steel.

Eventually he finds his journal, but it’s stuck underneath some junk, and he tries to yank it out. As he does, though, a photograph, faded and a little torn, pops out with the bright pink book.

John Winchester hadn’t aged a single day.

Dean can’t… his brain flat-lines, sayonara, goodbye good feelings, good vibe, good day. It’s like there’s an anvil on his chest so he just sheds his skin and gets into bed. He’s suddenly more aware of the scars on his body, the large gash hidden by his hair that’s never _too_ short in case anyone sees. He doesn’t need to touch the jagged edge up his left thigh because he can hear sobs and blubbers of ‘ _I’m sorry Dean’ ‘oh God Mary what have I done’ ‘He wasn’t paying attention it wasn’t my fault’_ that might as well have been the large shard of glass that left it there, on the landscape of his skin.

He sleeps through the day, the night, right the way through his alarm the next day.

 

* * *

 

Cas and Hannah haven’t yet been officially invited to the Roadhouse for milkshakes yet, a travesty the gang rectifies that night. It’s a bit of a tight fit (cue jokes in synchronisation about his big butt, which only makes Cas sigh that they all hang out too much) in their usual booth with the suspicious mustard stain, but they manage it. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in a certain someone’s section.

While they wait for Jo to come take their orders, Hannah does this weird… okay, she basically Moms Charlie; she licks her thumb and rubs some grime off the bridge of her nose, as if? That’s a thing they do now? And the weirdest part, of course, is that Charlie just looks… god, she looks _fond_. Dean didn’t think Charlie was even capable of looking fond. Horny, yes. Approving, double yes. Fond? Uncharted and thus terrifying territory.

Luckily Jo swings by hips first and gives everyone a smile before realising they have two new visitors.

“H-Hey guys! You wanna introduce me?” She says, putting her hand on her hip and purses her lips at Dean expectantly, because apparently he has to do everything around here. Would’ve been nice to be given a head’s up, or at least extra vacation time.

“Jo, this is Cas and Hannah, Cas and Hannah, this Jo Harvelle, waitress extraordinaire,” he says with only a little sarcasm. This earns him a righteous punch to the shoulder, executed with a smile, courtesy of Jo herself.

“Real nice to meet y’all, you gonna order something?”

Cas looks on the verge of ill at the thought of choosing something to eat, so Dean orders a burger for himself and two portions of fries between him, Cas and Anna. Charlie orders her usual gross milkshake and Hannah requests (bleugh) a _salad_. Jo reads the room well enough not to laugh, so that’s something.

As she leaves, however, Hannah turns to Anna (heh, rhyming’s fun) with a raised eyebrow. “Is everyone in this group gay?”

Charlie nearly chokes on her own spit.

“Pan,” Anna sighs, “and Dean-o here is too straight to function. Charlie’s hella gay, though, don’t worry,” she sasses with a wink.

Hannah looks like she’s gonna splutter herself to the moon, but carries on anyway. “I was just wondering, since you and the waitress..?” She trails off, carrying on instead in the ancient art of interpretive hand signals that mean nothing. “Y’know?”

Charlie groans, and Dean joins her, even when Cas elbows him in the ribs. “Dude, do you really want to get her started?”

But Anna’s practically got her anime-eyes going on, and really, who is Dean to deny Cas and Hannah The Saga of Anna Milton and Joanna Beth Harvelle (patent pending)?

“Well it all started in elementary. We were best friends because these two boys wanted my colouring pencils, even though I was using them, and Jo came and beat them up for me!” She sighs, like some bosom-heaving romantic novel. “From then, I knew we were destined. She’s been my best friend through elementary, middle school, junior high. I mean, I don’t get to see her as often, since Ellen pulled her out and had her home-schooled,” she laughs nervously, “There was a, uh, incident. With a few of her dad’s throwing knives,” Hannah raises her eyebrow again, “She’s not some kind of delinquent, okay, she’s just,” Charlie and Dean time their love-struck faces _perfectly, “_ misunderstood.” Hannah chuckles a little, but Cas remains solemn, “Oh, you guys are just! The worst!”

“So she’s your white whale, then?” Hannah says, retaining her seriousness through sniggers.

“Nothing so violent as that. I just, I want to wait for her. I’d wait to the ends of the earth for her.And don’t get me wrong, I’ve dated other people, but. None of them. Not one. I’ve never felt anything for anyone that I feel for her.”

The five of them sit, contemplative as teenagers can be (which, considering the maelstrom of shit that’s thrown at you in the space of primary education, is pretty damn much) until Cas somehow alights on something that makes him go a little slack-jawed.

“Uh,” he musters before everyone turns to see where he’s looking, “Wait, Anna, no- ”

It’s too late though. Everyone and their instagram account has seen it.

Joanna Beth Harvelle, destined since toddlerdom to be with Anna Milton, is making out with Kevin Tran as she’s about to come and serve their booth. She pulls away, smiling so widely her face might break apart.

She sets their food down and everyone’s staring at her, speechless, except for Anna, who might be shaking up an earthquake in her corner. “Eeeverybody okay?” She counts the fries, “You said two, right?” Silence. Dean doesn’t even know what his own name is anymore, all he can do is witness this train wreck that wouldn’t know it was a train wreck anyway. “Anna, honey, you want a refill?”

Anna evidently does not want a refill. She practically climbs out over Dean and Cas, smushing

Dean’s face as she clambers out with a mumbled, “I need some air.”

Dean, tied for second on Anna’s list of best friends, chases after her while Charlie holds the fort. What no one’s expecting, although everyone’s should’ve seen it coming, is that Cas wordlessly follows him, despite Charlie’s hissed whisper of, “Cas, wait, leave ‘em.”

Anna maintains her composure until the parking lot, where she looks up at the waning moon and continues to shake, like she still can’t let herself crumble. Dean doesn’t want to approach, but Cas goes to her, regardless. He’s just fearless, marching into danger with no armour.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers into her hair.

At that she crumples a little, holding onto him tightly. “She’s… she’d never kiss anyone in public like that unless. Unless…” she finally lets herself sob into his sweater, grip like a vice.

He looks over her shoulder at nothing, standing stoic while Dean watches. He comes over and gathers them both into a big hug, squeezing tightly. “You’re gonna be okay, nerd.”

Except Anna pulls away and looks at Dean like _he’s_ the one who just made out with the girl of her dreams (which, no, even when Jo had a crush on him, _no_ ).

“You don’t friggin’ get it, Dean,” she bites, low at first, then growling, “you have… _no_ idea what it’s like to be in love with someone, to feel like you’d die for her, and for them to never love her back!”

Well, she’s got him there, but, “Well, I love you! So does Charlie!”

Cas nods, “I do, too. And I’ve only just met you.”

Anna laughs at that and Dean knows in that moment he wouldn’t have been able to do this, wouldn’t have been able to help, not properly, if Cas hadn’t been there.

Cas is essential, and that delights Dean to no end.


	7. i cringe, i die, i cringe again!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't like to brag, y'all, but some stuff happens in this here chapter, so hold on to your beverages.
> 
> warning for nsfw content eheh

The next day swings around so fast, Dean would probably lose his hand trying to catch it, and the linoleum’s stinking higher in his nose for some reason. He searches for Cas, roaming the halls (how poetic), and one slinking past Zachariah’s office later he finds the guy. Well, the guy finds him. Well. The guy nearly crashes into him.

“Dude, where’s the fire?” He grins, but Cas looks like he’s about to either dry-hump his leg or punch him square in the face. Dean still hasn’t quite figured those micro-expressions out.

Cas’s eyes widen and he balls up Dean’s shirt in his fists what the _hell_. “Dean. I need you to help me.”

“Sure, dude, anything,” Dean breathes, like some Gothic heroine on the moors or whatever.

Cas then… for lack of a word, _whimpers_. He just barely hides the way he clutches his stomach and _oh no_.

“Dude, you on the rag?”

Cas wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Must you call it that?”

Dean shrugs helplessly, “I’ve had girl best friends my whole life, that’s what they call it,” and that’s when he turns on hero mode. “Don’t worry, Cas, I got this.”

He looks around, students still milling about, messing at their lockers, gossiping about soccer boots and Call of Duty to milk the time, and it’s gonna be suspicious whenever so-

Dean grabs Cas’s arm and pulls him into the boy’s restroom. “We’ll hide out in here until the crowd dies down.”

What Dean’s not banking on is someone still being in there when they burst in together.

“Get the fuck outta here, Winchester, suck Novak’s dick somewhere else!”

Before Dean can step to the plate, his words all jumbled in between his cotton mouth and fried brain at what Walker’s implying, Cas almost pushes Dean out of the way, saying in his huskiest (oh fuck) voice: “But Roman, where oh where would we recreate the ambience?”

Roman zips up pretty quickly after that, mumbling something about ‘gay marriage ruining america’, pretty standard nonsense from Little Mr. Trust Fund.

When Dean gets back to himself, Cas is breathing a little heavier. “Cas, _Cas_ , are you okay?” Dean rushes to his side and holds him up but. But Cas is laughing. Laughing?

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to do something like that for so long!” he cries out between hoots. He’s practically on the floor (which, ew, deeply unsanitary) and Cas can’t stop.

“Cas, love this little moment of empowerment you got goin’ on, but we need to keep it down if we’re gonna get away with this,” Dean says, but he can’t help but chuckle a little along with Cas. It’s infectious, his carefree laugh. It lights up the dingy boy’s room.

Finally Cas quietens down and stands up straight, but he’s right back to buckled over and Dean’s ushering him like an old grandpa over to the sinks to lean against the cool porcelain. Cas pulls his sweater up at the small of his back and lets out a little hiss as he comes into contact with his mark.

Dean raises an eyebrow, “You okay over there?”

Cas’s head lolls back, and he looks at Dean in a daze, “My uterus is not cooperating, Dean.”

He gets a snort for his efforts, “How’s it not cooperating?”

“It’s existing. Inside of me. Presently,” Cas punctuates with sharp breaths in and out. “I am hopeful for the day that I get them removed. I’d paint the town red.”

“Real sucker for irony, then?” Dean smirks, and Cas punches him the shoulder (oh god, he’s been hanging out with Charlie too often).

“So, much as I love to play truant during Trig, what exactly are we doing here?” Cas probes, eyes closed against the tacky brightness above. “I don’t have a towel to change.”

Dean checks his phone for the time, and grabs Cas by the sweater arm. “C’mon, let’s move.”

Cas groans and ends up swinging his head into Dean’s chest, his body at a right angle pushing at Dean like a grumpy baby bull. “Here is good, we can stay here.”

Dean sighs and sits Cas in a stall, where he continues to groan; Dean rushes out to the Impala, ducking at every window he passes just in case. He doesn’t even rile up ole Zachy-boy for funsies, he’s so focused.

When he returns to Cas, he’s got armfuls of goodies: towels and panty liners of various flows, tampons and a bottle of Midol. He shakes it all invitingly to Cas and Cas looks like he might cry. Dean’s not gonna judge, he’s seen it all. Cas jumps from his seat and Dean’s sure he’s gonna hug him or something sappy, and Dean leans into it until Cas snatches his shit away and darts back into the stall. Duh, Dean-o, priorities, much?

He stands vigil at the door, and once he’s done, Cas emerges, already looking lighter.

“And I’ve got cranberry juice and chocolate in the Impala, several very violent action films on my laptop, and three or four blankets in the trunk,” he snorts, “Charlie once dubbed it the Menstruation Mobile. Of course I had to pants her for that.”

Cas laughs like he’s been caught off guard, and pats Dean on the shoulder. “Thank you, Dean,” he rubs a thumb back and forth like Dean’s the one that needs comfort, “I cannot appreciate this enough.”

Dean can feel the blush burning up his neck, so he rubs it, nonchalant, whatever, “No problem, man, but let’s get going, daytime’s a wastin’, and I’m only every this nice when a guy’s uterus is pulsing real bad.”

Cas flourishes his hand then clearly regrets it as he winces, “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

Six hours and two terribly tearful viewings of _Mad Max: Fury Road_ later (at one point Cas just clawed out at the screen then retreated to his nest on Dean’s bed, whispering ‘witness me’), Cas seems a lot more chipper (read: hyper as fuck).

Sam gets home and joins them for a brutal game of Cards Against Humanity (where Sam really wipes the floor with them…) and then of course making sure Cas is staying for dinner where they’re gonna try out the new Chinese place that’s popped up and made the rookie mistake of delivering to their zip code.

Still picking chicken out of teeth, Dean looks over at Cas who’s wriggling around, clearly uncomfortable.

“What’s with the rain dance, Nux?”

Cas looks grumpy again and continues to scratch his back against Dean’s wall like a damn bear.

“ _Cas_ , c’mon, you still binding?”

Cas sighs, “I’ve been wearing old sports bras, but they are… frustrating.”

“Why do you even bother wearing a bra around me, dude, we’re all guys here,” but even as he says it, cool as the desert, his mouth’s dry at the thought of Cas being that comfortable around him. It’s been a long time since he’s had as good of a guy friend (hell, he’s never had any really great guy friends other than Sammy, and he’s his brother, he has to love him), so Dean’s just. Not so sure why he’s got this feeling like he swallowed his tongue around Cas all the time. Must be a hyper-masculinity thing, probably.

Cas asks, “Are you sure?” Dean nods, and Cas whips his sweater off and lets out a sigh of relief as he gets the sports bra off.

Dean turns away, of _course_ , you don’t _watch_ people _change_ , that’s _weird_ , but he catches the reflection of Cas’s back briefly in his window, long expanses of skin, little moles dotted near the knobs of his spine, like constellations.

And then his sweater’s back on and he’s burrowed into the nest he’s created, popping another couple of peanut butter cups into his mouth.

Dean shakes that shit off and joins his _FRIEND_ over to the bundle of blankets and sheets (which are starting to stink of sweat and melted chocolate, nice) and he clicks onto his movie folder.

“So, something sad, something stupid, or something action-y,” he asks, all jovial tones.

Cas hums a little, then says, “Do you, uh, haveanyromancemovies?”

“The who with the what with the huh?” Dean teases.

“It’s not of import, we can watch _Fury Road_ again,” Cas mumbles.

Dean finds himself almost poking Cas in the ribs, but that would be Not Cool, so he settles with nudging him, “C’mon, what?”

Cas buries his head in his folded arms, the drama nerd he is, “I wanna watch something romantic, okay?”

He lies there, being all moody, while Dean brings up _He’s Just Not that Into You_ on his laptop and waits patiently for Cas to look up again. When he seems unable to, Dean, in a highly heterosexual manner, (no funny business, alright?) trails his calloused hands through Cas’s hair, all ruffled and badly cut, probably with kitchen scissors.

Cas looks up, and his eyes are a shade of blue still unknown to man, like a raw new colour Dean’s never truly seen before. Bright and dark all at once, and he’s so close, they’re so close, and Cas matches his eyes.

And then Dean manages to get some fucking sense in his asshole head, of skewed perception and taking advantage of the only good guy friend and what if he’s being transphobic and this is Very Bad and he can’t can’t can’t lose Cas, it’s a fate worse than hangovers and the Crystal Skull movie.  

“I! I wanna go to Columbia and write stuff!” he blurts, and what the? Really?

Cas pulls back, his cracked lips wet (wettened? oh god **stop** thinking about it) and he squints at Dean. He graduates to sitting back on his haunches, then puts on his concerned face.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asks, gently, so gently.

Dean nods, and really, he’s not meant to be the one torn between sexual frustration and tearing up, unless Anna’s right and sympathetic PMS is a real thing all of a sudden.

“I just don’t wanna make my mom sad, or, or disappointed, or whatever. She’s had her heart set on me breaking the speed of light to find little green weirdos since I messed with my first circuit board,” he sighs. He barely tells Charlie and Anna this. Never Sam. God, never Sam. “And I know, if I applied myself I could get a chance at a free ride for Stanford. Then Mom working nights and days and nights again won’t be a total waste because she’ll be able to focus solely on getting Sammy there too. But,” he hates when his voice breaks, he fucking hates it, “I’m not a good enough writer to get anything near that kinda thing, especially not with Columbia, I’m not- ” he breathes, Atlas shucking off the weight a little, “I’m not good enough.”

The silence stagnates a bit, swamp-like. He can’t even breathe in, it’s so thick. And then Cas just takes his hand with both of his and rubs his thumbs over the backs of Dean’s hand.

“I said it before, and I’ll say it again, Dean Winchester. You see the magic in the seams of this place,” he lets out a sigh and keeps looking down at Dean’s hand, and Dean can’t blame him, he’s hypnotised too. “But the minute you compromise on being who you are, truly, authentically you, the doubts? Those monsters you see everywhere? They win.” And he looks at Dean with something in his eyes like nothing Dean’s ever encountered. It’s like holy fire. “Additionally, I will chase your ass from the west coast to the east my self if I hear you have, so if you ever needed incentive.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath and Cas lets go. “Just press play, you sap.”

 

* * *

 

Cas settles in at the booth, still feeling the pulses, and just leans his head against the window. He’s got a thing for cool glass against his face.

“Yo, earth to Winchester!” Charlie snaps her fingers in front of him.

He grumbles, “Yeah, what?”

“I was askin’ if you can be designated driver for Gabriel’s on Friday, if you’d been in this solar system,” she sniggers, biting the paper off the top of her straw and blowing the remainder in Dean’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever, can we order already?”

“Alright, alright, are we synced up or something?” Charlie teases.

Anna’s a storm cloud on the other side of Dean, facing away from the kitchen doors for the first time since puberty. “Yeah, I could go for some nachos,” she says distractedly.

Charlie puts her hand over her’s and stares deeply into Anna’s eyes. “Milton? You with us?”

Anna shrugs, and slumps on the menu. Dean pats her hair, and keeps looking over the menu.

“I hate to be the one to ask, but where is Jo?” Hannah pipes up, and Anna fixes her with a solid glare. Hannah holds her hands up, “Sorry…”

“No, she’s right, where the hell is she?”

Speak of the blonde, REO-lovin’ devil, Jo’s rushing through the front doors, Kevin in tow, rushing in with a hoody and- and nothing underneath. Oh boy. And Jo’s looking more flushed than usual. Oh boy. And Kevin’s got some really great abs- oh _boy_ , Dean’s brain, shut up.

Like icing on the already awful-looking cake, Jo dashes past the counter only to rush back, kiss a dopey Kevin soundly, tie her apron on and run back into the kitchen.

All in full view of Anna sad pan Milton.

The booth is tense, right up until Jo bounds over, face still a little red. Neck hickey, check. Rumpled clothes, check.

“What can I get y’all, tonight, sorry for the wait, I totally suck,” Jo beams.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Anna mumbles.

Jo looks like she’s been slapped across the face. “Excuse m-?”

“I would like the fries please!” Cas says entirely too loudly, and everyone turns to him with varying degrees of amusement.

“Dude, no, can’t have salt,” he hisses. Charlie raises an eyebrow.

“Why can’t he have salt?”

“Because of the low-sodium diet! I am on! Of course, Charlie!” and Cas is not even trying to sound like a functioning human being anymore, looking like he’s about to shit out a cactus or two.

“Okay, so a big load of nothing for this table in my section, thanks, guys,” Jo says quickly, and Dean can feel her throat being tight. All he wants to do is go after her, but he has no idea what he’d say.

Charlie kicks Anna under the table. “Ow!”

“That was rude, go apologise,” Charlie orders, “she doesn’t need that.”

“Oh whatever, Charlie, just ‘cause you’ll sleep with anything that moves.”

Fuck, she’s on her game tonight. Charlie blanches for no man, but Anna is no man. Especially with Hannah right next to her, even Dean knows that’s a dick move. “Woah, don’t kill me laser-beam Milton, but seriously, slow your roll.”

“I don’t need a fucking straight boy telling me to calm down right now, Dean,” she spits, and before anyone can really say anything back, she strides out of there, slamming the swinging doors and everything.

There’s a squirming weirdness in the air, until Hannah grumbles, “I would have liked some curly fries, actually.”

Charlie lets out a huff of a laugh, and pokes Hannah in the side.

Dean turns to get Cas’s gauge on it, only to see him staring on out after Anna. What. What’s that. A large glow-worm stirs inside Dean’s chest, and he doesn’t know why, but it glows green.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_There was a hole in the rift, and he could’ve made it through, probably, but he needed someone not quite as human as him. Someone with a little darkness in them._

_Of course, as soon as he thought of Smith, he was there, like a painful apparition. Except apparitions had the decency to leave once you’d tired of them. Since their psychic meld at the Bronze Willows, it had been constant torture for James, but he slapped on a smile for posterity. And because he valued his molars._

_“You thought of me, sweetie, need any help with anything?” He purred at James, like he didn’t disgust him, the very sight of him. “Something… frustrating you?”_

_“I need your services for another kind of riding, Smith,” he gestured at the rift with a smirk, “if you’ll have me?”_

_“I thought you’d never ask,” Smith drawled, sealing their mouths in a contract of lightning. Sentience came at a heavy, sharp price, and although his skin didn’t bleed, James felt that price as Smith’s fangs grazed his lips._

_“Please…” Smith sighed into his mouth, “be my guest.”_

Dean fluffs his hair in frustration, and, taking one look at his work then at his bed and then his work and back to his bed again, he decides a calming round of jerking off will rid his mind of fucking terrible sexual frustration.

He wanders over to his bed, and curls into the wall, checking over his shoulder first that the door’s closed and Sam’s at soccer practice still. He closes his eyes and breathes, pulling his pyjamas down, just feeling himself through his boxers, the loose fabric like smoke on his skin.

As he feels himself growing harder and harder, his mind is almost blank. He likes being like this, likes just the feel of his dick in his hands, likes touching himself when everything’s a little too loud. He sometimes thinks of Lisa, sometimes Cassie, even once or twice Ellie, but since he’s met Cas he tries… other things.

He thinks of someone tall. He pictures them touching him like he’s doing to himself. He pulls his shirt up and skates his fingers over his hipbones, barely there, but on his side he feels beautiful, like he’s been carved out of something ancient. He traces stretch marks on his ass like lightning striking mountains and it’s beautiful, he pictures someone that thinks he’s beautiful. There’s someone that breaths hard against his neck, someone that’s desperate for him, someone that pulls him against them and jacks him off nice and slow. Someone that touches him like they love him.

It’s so private, and so intense sometimes, that he barely even strokes before he’s coming a measly amount into his fist, bathos in a physical sense. The warmth stays with him though, for a little while.

That is until he remembers no one would. Who would be fucked up enough to love him?

This was a bad idea.

Somehow somehow (he knows how) he remembers when Sammy was only two years old, and it was Dean’s birthday. He’d wanted to hold John’s hand, but he wouldn’t let him, didn’t want his son to be a sissy.

It had been a real hoot, that party. There were streamers and everything.

As it gets dark around him, Dean tries hard not to fuck his fist and forget about it.


	8. who the fuck is nans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay quick note: first, i know my usual update dates are mondays but i've got a loooot on my plate for next week so i'm getting this chapter up for now so i don't slack off, then i'll get another chapter (oooh and it's gonna be a doozy, don't you worry) the monday AFTER that, i just didn't wanna mess up the midpoint, ya feel? so, tl:dr, chapter today, no chapter this coming monday, big chapter the monday after. 
> 
> now that i'm done with housekeeping, here comes the achtungs: graphic description of a panic attack, casual ableism, intentional misgendering, aaand gender dysphoria. okay! remember stay safe, i do discuss the aftermath of all these events in the next chapter so if you wanna skip this one that's okay xoxoxo
> 
> also, if you do go on, i hope, as always, that you enjoy it!! <333

Slugs. His mouth is full of slugs. That’s the only way to describe how he’s feeling as he walks a death row march to Devereaux’s office. As is typical of when he feels an oncoming wave about to crash over him, none of his friends are free or around. Jo is too busy with Young Kevin. Anna’s been liable to strike a man dead since that night. Charlie’s MIA and Cas? No one can reach Cas, not even Hannah. He knows, he’s called, like, a million and eight times.

So instead of the usual bad-boy skip in his step he’s been cultivating since the start of senior year, Dean finds his sophomore slump making a comeback (although his attendance had been freakin’ perfect sophomore year).

The seats are no longer anti-ergonomic and comfy, they squeak with every movement and his heart races at the thought of being a disappointment (of course of course).

The office assist, Nancy, same year as him, super virtuous daughter of a preacher man, ushers him in, kind look on her kind face. Her sweater vest is cute in a geriatric way. It probably doesn’t smell comforting though. Probably doesn’t smell like tiger balm and the crispy part of a sunny side-up.

“Winchester?” Devereaux doesn’t even wait for Nancy to leave to turn on the gruff, and as she leaves Dean sits in chairs he didn’t even know existed last year.

Devereaux leans forward in his seat, hands clasped like he’s real serious. “Dean, is everything alright at home?’

Wait, what? “Of course, sir, everything’s fine,” he grins. God, if he knew it was gonna be something as mundane as a cursory visit he’d’ve called a rain check on the undue cloud of whatever that was. “Now that we’ve got all that cleared up- ”

“Sit back down, Winchester,” he barks, “since you’ve got no excuse, I’m going to have to ask you a serious question.” He stares right at Dean, his toady eyes staring, “You’re a bright kid. Pretty solid throughout your career, then senior year hits and you’re a C, closing in on C - student. What’s with the bombing, huh?”

“I- I don’t…” his throat’s closing up, oh god, breathe breathe. “Not a problem, sir, I’ll bring ‘em back up no problem.”

“Dean, this is serious,” one two three four “I’m gonna have to call your mom about this.”

_onetwothreefouronetwothreefourthreethreethreethree_

He doesn’t know when he ended up on the floor, but his head’s ringing and his chest is so tight it’s like someone dropped a piano on it and then strapped it to him. He can’t hear very much, but kind Nancy’s there, so’s Roy (fuckin’ Roy why him) and the school nurse, all fawning over him as he tries not to die.

The breathing. Is harsh. To his own. Ears. But there’s. Nothing. He can. Do about it. Someone passes him a glass of water but his arms are flailing so it ends up spilled on the parquet, the parquet which has come up from its setting and begun to crawl all over him (get them off get them off get them off) and his vision’s blurring. What if he is dying? Would that be too bad?

Then someone places a paper bag over his mouth and he’s somehow breathing jaggedly into it (note: the breathing things feels _awful)._ It all evens out, to an extent, and he’s back he’s alive, and now he’d wish everyone would dissipate.

Devereux looks like he might follow him into that train of thought, stopping off at his own panic attack. “Dean, has that ever happened before?”

Dean stares blankly at him, “No,” and lies.

Devereux nods, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder, “I’m still gonna have to report this to your mother, Dean.”

Dean nods, and Devereux leaves to give him space. Nancy’s there, and Roy’s looking at him like he’s a drum scrubbed new. Nancy bends down, knee-length skirt modest, her knees are a scabby brown and knobbly. His brain feels weird.

“You need me to take you to the nurse’s office?” she asks gently, her hand coming to his shoulder like she’s got a healing touch. Even if she did, she’d be there a while.

So Dean flashes her a grin that in any other situation would be described as ‘wolfish’, but he’s far too hollow for it to follow through. “M’fine, sweetheart, wouldn’t worry about me.”

Her brow furrows but she finally lets him be, before turning and giving him a quick smile before she leaves. Roy’s still standing there, useless fuck. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it, fingering a gold chain round his neck. He leaves without ever saying a word, and Dean wants to kiss the ground.

What seems like years pass until he’s able to stand again, but the Bad Thoughts still circle, and not even politely like vultures, like silver-winged falcons that want the fresh meat rather than leftovers.

He needs Charlie.

 

* * *

 

The copy room, as its name implies, holds the photocopier for the third floor. It’s the worst possible printer ever manufactured, so Charlie harangued the key from the janitor sophomore year so she could make out with girls in between class.

These days, free periods have been nothing but a haven for a girl so smart she could sleep through every class and end up valedictorian. Dean thanks the Indy trilogy that he had his little freakout during a free.

Except when he approaches the door, remote and kinda horror-movie-lookin’ for a make-out point, (but then that’s probably the idea) all he hears is barely contained arguing.

‘…been my friend since forever, Nans, I’m not gonna ditch her for anything!” presumably Charlie yells, except who the fuck is Nans?

“She’s been insufferable lately, going on after Jo!” Oh. Hannah is the fuck is Nans.

Charlie scoffs, her famous scoff, and really Dean’s rarely seen Charlie this pissed. She tends to either keep it all mellow or intimidate her foe before it gets any further than posturing. She doesn’t get angry, she doesn’t let herself. Usually. “You can be insufferable too!”

“Oh wow, very mature, _Charlotte_.” Ooh, no no no.

“Don’t be an ass, and don’t act like you have any idea what love is, buck-o, you haven’t the faintest.” Breakin’ out the buck-o is a sign like the four horsemen are a sign.

“Oh, and you do? If you’re not playing Aragorn with your little gang, your nose is in a book or computer screen or both!” Holy _shit_.

He can practically hear Charlie roll up her sleeves. “At least I have an imagination, you robot!”

There’s a silence and Dean’s really got to stop making a habit of eavesdropping, it’s gonna make him feel like a Hitchcock villain or some shit, so he makes his way back before he hears rustling and muffled “oh _fuck_ ”s. Charlie’s not the most violent person, but she’s not incapable of it, either. He’s got to make sure they aren’t killing each other in there.

So of course he barges in to find them making out like they’re each other’s only source of air.

They look at him, deer in headlights, and it would be almost comical if Charlie’s hand wasn’t down the back of Hannah’s pants.

Hannah jumps first, practically throwing Charlie off her. Dean stares at the space she left behind and Charlie sighs, brushing herself down.

“Way to kill the mood,” she jokes, but he knows a Talk is inevitable. Before any of that, though, he goes in and hugs her, unsolicited but necessary. He knows the drill.  

 

* * *

 

Lunch finds them both behind the bike shed. They didn’t speak the whole way and Dean’s itching all the way to his feet to crack Charlie open. She’s just one of those friends, those friends that don’t give very much away, the ones that you’re sometimes not so sure they love you even though it’d be ridiculous to think otherwise because _of course_ they do. Maybe Dean’s just paranoid, but as much as he loves Charlie, she can be distant and a little absent at times, so moments like this? Where he gets to pick her brain about something that’s bothering her? To actually _help_ her the way she’s helped him countlessly over the years? His blood is buzzing for it.

They’re sat next to each other and Charlie digs out a pathetic-looking cigarette and a matchbook, that Dean can’t help but gape at.

“You smoke?” he gasps, and he’s never sounded more like his mother.

She gives him a look of ‘great deductive work, genius’, before lighting up and puffing out a billow of smoke. She straightens out the stick, leisurely rolling her thumb and forefinger along as she strokes so as to get it looking relatively non-wonky.

Dean shuffles and prompts super articulately, “So… Hannah?”

This grants him a sigh, the long-suffering kind, and she kicks out at a stone on the floor, scuffing her shoes. “Hannah what, Hannah nothing.”

“Gonna need more than that, and you know it.”

“We! I don’t even know, Dean, you know me, I don’t fuck around with straight girls, I had enough of that BS in middle school,” she pulls her knees up and crosses her arms, her chin jutted out, still defiant. “Hannah… I don’t know. She’s…” she smiles a little, trailing a fingernail in the dirt, “she’s always got that damn blazer, and every line neatly in place, she’s so _proper_ , it’s hilarious. I guess it started out with me just wanting to mess her up, get under her skin and just… be a dick,” she finishes with a huff, and Dean’s never heard someone laugh sadly before.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, “So, you like her?”

She buries her head in her arms and groans. Yep. “This sucks,” she says, although it’s muffled.

‘You wanna talk about how much you wanna make out with her?” he teases, because Charlie’s not the type to wanna wallow in anything, however deep in it she is.

She punches him in the shoulder, wicked grin back in place, “Do _you_ wanna talk about how much you wanna make out with _Cas_?”

Dean can tell by the corresponding look on Charlie’s face, from elated to ‘oh shit’, his own face just dropped six feet down. “What?” he asks shakily, slapping a smile back on.

Charlie tries to play it off, “Oh, come _on_ , I thought you knew?”

“I’m not gay, Charlie,” he says quietly, “it’s not… we’re not…”

It’s Charlie’s turn to be super awkward, and oh boy does she deliver, “Well, I mean, we just, we joke about it, Hannah and I, that you can see it from space.”

“‘It’? What is ‘it’? And you don’t joke, we joke, we joke about you!” Sounding super petulant was not Dean’s original strategy, but hey, best laid plans. “You don’t know! What?”

She pats him on the shoulder, then rubs it, which is terrible because Charlie’s pitying him, and Charlie pities _no man_.

“Talk to him, maybe?”

Dean groans into his hands.

 

* * *

 

Regardless of whatever madness has taken hold in Charlie’s brain, Dean does need to check up on Cas; if he was taking a day off, he’d’ve at least given Dean a head’s up. They don’t need to talk. They _don’t_.

Dean comes up to the Novak’s door, and Chuck’s on his way out, which is pretty usual for five in the afternoon, happy hour and all. He’s looking a little more haunted today, and at the sight of Dean he doesn’t even offer his cursory awkward wave before skittering away.

A shrug and he’s onward, catching the door before it closes. “Cas!” he shouts up. He’d sent texts but gotten no answer so he trumps up the stairs.

It’s too quiet. Cas at least has some new-age-y soft punk crap playing in the background whenever Dean comes over, and it’s not on. All Dean can hear is a weird sound, like scissors cutting through-

“Cas?” he pushes the bathroom door open and there he is, just in his pyjama pants and his binding (fuck, again, Cas?). His eyes are red and puffy, but he’s just angry-looking as he chops off tendrils of hair like they’re growing too fast. “What happened?” he breathes.

Cas waits a moment before his head drops. He slams the scissors into the sink, creating an eerie clashing sound, and he pulls at his hair, “It can’t be too long, it can’t _still_ be too fucking long, can it?” He slams his fist against the wall and it crumbles a little under him. “How does this keep happening?” His voice is low and trembling, so of course Dean approaches him slowly, but it’s all he can do to stop himself from holding Cas until the world ends.

“What did he do?” Dean tries really fucking hard to keep his own anger out of it, it’s not time.

Cas sniffs and points past Dean, towards his room. “See for yourself.”

They go in together and there’s a box on the bed with a note on it in shaky scrawl. “Can I read it?”

Cas just shrugs, so Dean goes on and reads it.

_My precious sweetheart, I know things have been tough lately, but I thought this might cheer you up. Prom’s coming up, and any boy would be lucky to have you. I hope it’s the right size, the lady in the shop said all the kids these days love this style. You’re the star of my life, and I love you more than anything. Dad xx_

“No offence dude, but you’re dad’s a shitty writer,” Dean snorts in his attempt at levity because from the note and Cas’s reaction to it, that big white box could only be a handful of things. And it’s probably not a kitten.

He lifts open the box and reveals… a floor-length prom dress. He pulls it out, gently, a murky midnight satin thing that, if it were worn by any girl Dean had dated in the last three years would be a total knockout. It’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen.

“We should burn it,” Cas pipes up, wiping his nose, “it’s even fucking backless.”

Dean shakes his head, “You reckon there’s a receipt?”

Cas shrugs, “If I look, maybe, but I think I’d rather burn it.”

“Dude, think for a sec, this thing must’ve cost a bomb. HRT, remember?”

Cas rolls his eyes, “Must you be uncharacteristically sensible just when I need you to be delinquent?”

Dean smiles at him, “I’m still a delinquent, I’m just a pragmatic one, today.”

Cas nods, but as he does, tears start up again, and he’s trying really hard to swallow them down, Dean can tell, he knows the signs, he’s felt them in his own throat. So he finally lets the gates open and pulls Cas roughly against him, breathing him in.

“M’gonna fix this,” he growls, right against Cas’s ear, his shoulders shaking. “I promise.”

Cas pulls back a moment to sniff and ponder, “Why?”

He feels his heart skip a couple of beats before he pulls away, stroking a hand down the back of his neck, “Because if I don’t step in, you’re gonna go bald, and bros don’t let bros go bald.”

Cas smirks at him and Dean’s dodged a mighty bullet. He looks down at himself as he just realised how half-naked he is. Not that… that’s a problem, or, like, whatever.

“Dean, you are terrible for my modesty,” Cas remarks, “letting me run around in my bindings. Can you pass me that shirt?”

Dean picks out the first one that he feels in the pile behind him, and throws it over. As Cas holds it up, he chuckles. “Chuck mixed up the laundry again.”

Cas puts on the faded Hawaiian shirt, the fabric floating against his wiry frame, and he buttons it up, nonchalant. With his choppy hair and snotty nose and blotchy eyes, he’s breathtaking. Dean can’t take his eyes off him.

Fuck, he hates when Charlie’s right.  


	9. life sucks and then you party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: alcohol/underage drinking, emetophobia, aaand finally mentions of dean x other

Dean spends half of his Saturday on amazon and the other half desperately catching up on all the shit he’s apparently been lagging behind in (and really, health is not a real class when all the teacher does is discuss the nutritional value of mangoes for over an hour). His room’s a mess, his life’s a mess, and all he can think of is how disappointed his mom’s gonna be.

Sam comes in and sits on his bed, just lying on it and staring at the ceiling until Dean asks, “What’s your damage, dude?”

Sam shrugs horizontally and sighs. Oh, one of _those_ situations. “Have you ever thought about why we’re here, Dean?”

Dean can’t help but shrug and turn back around to filling in an arbitrary chart about optimal exercise regimes and how to suck at them. “Tend not to worry about that, you’re the brains of the family, that’s your digs,” Dean snorts, “Way above my pay-grade.”

He can practically hear Sam frown, and the bed creaks with his sitting up, ‘Dean, I’m serious, I wanna talk about this.”

“Well, I wanna get this shit done in time for Gabe’s party, but neither of us is probably gonna get what we want,” he snaps, and he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t, but that’s the deal of being the shitty older brother, “Can’t you bother one of your girlfriends about it?”

“Just ‘cause you haven’t had a girlfriend since freshman year doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me!” Sam shouts, and slams the door behind him. It means peace, in a way, but now Dean can’t concentrate because of aforementioned shitty-ness.

He gets up and finds Sam in his wildly minimalist haven, those weird nodding dog figurines on every available surface (since when did he get so many?!) all nodding in unified judgement of Dean. Sends a shiver up and down his timbers.

“Sam, c’mon dude, don’t- ugh, okay, you wanna talk deep shit? Let’s talk deep shit, but I’m probably not gonna be able to keep up with you beyond Chicago pizzas,” Dean rocks the little body of his brother, and little tiny brother body curls up like a venus fly-trap, with a petulant groan to boot. “Dude, Sammy, I’m sorry.”

Sam peers up at him, all squinty eyes and pouty-ness, and shifts up against the headboard. “Dean, I’m worried about the future.”

Dean looks at Sam with what he hopes is a look that conveys both confusion and amusement, because what the fuck is this pipsqueak doin’ thinking about the capital F Future?

“What’re you doin’ that for, Sammy?” he decides to go with a gentler route, but damn, Sammy has a flair for the dramatics, that’s for damn sure. They should’ve known when he brought the house down in _Our Town_. “You’ve got at least four years of blissful ignorance before you need to worry about anything to do with the future, unless it’s X-Men or Terminator related.”

Sam’s lower lip wobbles. “I just- I don’t want you to go, Dean,” his voice comes out all reedy and weird, like he’s all at once younger and older than his years, and he’s not allowed to sound like that, Dean should’ve never let him end up sounding like that, ‘I don’t want you to leave me here a-alone.”

Dean pulls his little bro into his arms and squeezes, tight as he can, “Not goin’ anywhere, Sammy, and if I am, you’re comin’ right along with me, shotgun for life.”

“Mom would kill you,” Sam mutters into Dean’s shoulder, but he grips all the tighter, and Dean hopes he can remain an anchor to this kid for as long as he’s breathing, for as long as it’s necessary, even longer than Sam’ll want him.

Dean ruffles his hair before leaving a soft kiss at his hairline, “What brought this on?”

Sam shrugs, “Lenore isn’t hanging out with me anymore because she thinks it’s weird we don’t have a dad,” he sniffs, “What kind of person even says stuff like that?”

Dean rubs his shoulders, re-assuring as he can be, “Assholes, dude. Total assholes. Good riddance to bad shit.”

He notices the time over Sam’s head and-

“Fuck, I’m late.”

 

* * *

 

He gets to the party and it’s so loud there’s a distant worry in the back of his mind that his brains could be leaking out of his ears. He checks, just to be safe. Nope, no brain leakage thus far. Still, the night is young, and so are the college girls Gabe magically managed to swing ‘round to his place. Raphael looks fuckin’ smokin’, so he goes to dance with them until they push him away.

The lights are loud too, if that’s possible, and he can’t really see anyone. Charlie never confirmed, Anna still hasn’t spoken to any of them, and Jo tends to be cozied up to Kevin most nights these days.

He spots Charlie coming in, and Hannah’s in the kitchen. From his vantage point, he sees them look at each other but not actually acknowledge it. To be more precise, Hannah looks away and keeps filling up her cup while Charlie storms off to find some other doe-eyed girl to make out with. Cas… he gets a pass, he’s had a rough couple of days, he probably needs time to recuperate.

Of course, that’s when he sees him.

Cuddled up to Meg fuckin’ Masters. They look fuckin’ _swell_ , a total it couple. There she is in a choker and sheer purple shirt looking so hot she could set fire to anyone she wanted, and of course Cas. Cas looks like he stepped off the pages of indie darling webzines printed on dove’s feathers or some shit. He looks glorious, he looks _edible,_ with his dark hair even messier than usual and his bright eyes dark with arousal or a lack of sobriety, and Dean doesn’t know which one he would prefer at this point. Cas has no right looking hot as hell.

And Dean? _He_ has no right. He has no right to feel his blood boiling while his heart feels like it’s about to sink into the earth’s core, it’s so heavy. He can’t carry it anymore, he can’t carry any of it anymore.

He snatches a cup out of Garth What’s-His-Name the Twelfth’s hand, chugs it down and feels that familiar cloud start to envelop his everything. He finds a clear bottle of crisp and expensive vodka and goes the fuck to town on it.

His own laughter and voice sound echoing even to him.

If he could turn back time… if he could find a way… wait no, that’s a Cher song… Dean wonders whatever happened to her… he hopes she's doing okay…

Clowns would be a strange addition, but then Sam wouldn’t enjoy it, would he?

He feels arms wrapped around his middle and a ‘woah, there, Winchester’ fogging up his earholes. He smells peppermint and lipgloss, and suddenly he _needs_ a warm body to press up against, his dick is straining so fucking hard against his jeans that he might burst with want. He feels so unsure and so impure and yet there’s love coursing through his veins like maggots. He feels like his limbs are falling off. He feels and yet he doesn’t, because nothing is connected. He feels numb, which is a nice little oxymoron he would appreciate if he wasn’t experiencing it.

“You’ve got lovely eyes,” a voice, Lisa? Lisa Braeden? Beautiful, soft skin and kind eyes and so willing so pliant under his fingers, someone that wants him, loves him?

He kisses her right there, wherever they are, and there’s Charlie whooping, there’s Charlie jeering, he hopes Charlie kisses someone she loves tonight.

“I don’t know about Charlie but there’s rooms upstairs,” Lisa murmurs like a hurricane in her ear. It’s apt, they are in Kansas after all.

Her hand stretches his arm so far it’s a wonder she doesn’t leave him at the bottom of the stairs, but he’s here now, he’s in the room and it’s spinning so hard. Spins so hard that when Lisa pins him to a hard futon he thanks every angel in the room for stability.

She takes off her top, nothing underneath, and he gasps, honest to junk _gasps_ , at how beautiful she is in the light coming from the streetlights outside. He wants to kiss every inch of her, make her so happy she could cry, he wants her fingers to trace every inch of him and call him home. Except really truly really he wants to throw up.

“I wanna throw up,” he mumbles. She frowns and suddenly someone else is in there, someone big, someone with such a rumbling voice, it’s like the roar of the impala.

The two exchange words, some of them sounding like ‘… here first!’, others sounding like ‘not getting anywhere tonight…’, most sounding like, ‘is that spit?’.

Eventually there’s only one remaining, and judging by calloused hands wrenching him up, it’s not Lisa.  

‘C’mon now, brother, let’s get you cleaned up,” a smoked ham of a voice accompanied by large hands pulling him up by the armpits. Everything smells like cigarette smoke and cotton.

Then everything’s bright and Dean’s too old to be here anymore, “Just let me die,” he hears himself mumble, “P-please, just- let me.”

The guy with him chuckles, “Can’t do that, sweetheart, you are way too pretty to die.”

“What’s - no…”

“The name’s Benny, in case you can’t get the words out,” he can smell stale water, “now up-chuck, gorgeous.”

As if he’s a doll, he vomits on command, most of it liquid, but all of burning as it pushes up his throat and into the toilet bowl. Benny pats his back through it all, but Dean still feels like the world is coming apart at the seams.

“Cas,” he murmurs, “I need Cas…”

Benny rustles and doesn’t leave the room when he shouts, “Hey! Got a Cas anywhere? His friend needs some help.”

There’s more rustling, more loud music fading in and out, until there’s a shirt comprised entirely of flamingoes and fuzzy blue eyes in front of him, “Dean? Oh god, Dean, please, are you okay?”

“I need you, Cas,” he grabs onto Cas’s shirt, dragging him down to his bottom-dwelling, scum-sucking level, so tired so tired, “Please, god, I need you…”

Cas grips him hard, despite the smell of sick in the air, most of it all Dean, “I’m here,” there’s a hand stroking his hair, “I’m here…”

“Look, this is real touchin’, but I can keep taking care of him,” Benny says, “We need water and bandages.”

He feels Cas growl more than hears him, “And why can’t you retrieve these things?”

“I don’t even know this Gabe guy, I’m chaperoning my sister tonight. You know everyone better, you know the place better,” his voice turns nicer? Maybe? “He’’ll be here when you get back, I promise.”

Dean feels the whine in his throat, and barely loosens the grip of Cas’s shirt before Cas is getting up and leaving. He gives Dean one final look before jogging downstairs.

Benny comes back over to the toilet bowl, stroking thick fingers through Dean’s hair, so comforting. Dean’s head lolls so he’s facing the guy and… woah. He’s so pretty.

Benny smiles, “Why, thank you, sugar. Ain’t so bad yourself.”

And Dean has no idea how he ends up in Benny’s lap, grinding down like his life depends on it, or how Benny’s lip is found between his teeth, but he does know the look on Cas’s face, cold compresses and water in hand, when he sees them. He knows the look, he knows the disgust, he knows the shame that’s always built up in him when he’s dreamt of stubble burn between his thighs, he knows the violent retching that starts up when- oh wait, no that’s now, that’s very now.

When he looks back up Cas is gone, even if the imprint of him remains, like Dean’s been staring at the light too long and no amount of blinking will make the look of horror on Cas’s face disappear.

And throwing up happens once again.

 

* * *

 

Dean stumbles back downstairs when his head’s back on properly (just about) and Benny’s holding him in the small of his back. His hands are warm and big and grounding, but Dean still can’t see straight.

So when he sees Charlie barely able to stand up by herself, he knows he’s fucked up.

“Damn, Charlie, wha- ?”

Hannah comes and holds Dean, her small frame easily holding up his semi-dead weight like it’s nothing. “It’s okay, I can take him,” and he hears that predatory edge in her voice that he once heard only associated with Cas, and it might be the illegal contents of his stomach, but Dean thinks that thought makes him feel dizzy with happiness. Then again, probably the alcohol. “Can you stand up?”

He nods like his head’s loose on his neck, and she goes to Charlie. Her voice is more slurred than Dean’s if that were possible. That’s when Dean remembers.

“Cas?” he whines, like it’s gonna mean anything more profound to anyone but him.

Hannah looks up for a moment, Charlie’s head falling against her as she slips her phone back into Charlie’s pocket. “Home, Dean.” She places Charlie on her side and her hand ghosts just above her cheek, above her jawline.

“I should… not… take Charlie home…” he reasons in that way of his.

Hannah gives him a small smile, “I’ve called her parents, they’ll be here soon, stop worrying.”

Dean nods and hands his car keys to her, “Safer w’you.”

With that and another stumble, he’s clawing his breath from the night air and putting one foot in front of the other just to get home.

 

* * *

 

He feels the door slam more than he hears it, and Mary’s sitting at the kitchen table like a mirage, not quite there but by the power of will and trembling with something, disillusionment or rage, Dean can’t quite tell from his level of sobriety.

“Dean Winchester,” she says, papers in front of her. Devereaux’s report. Dean has enough brain power to register a gentle ‘fuck’.

“Mom Winchester,” he grins, mustering every bit of strength he has left to indicate that he’s no, nope, not drunk at all, uh-uh, cicero, lipschtiz.

Mary scoffs, and honestly the Sammy Winchester patented looks that could kill are a watered-down version of Mary’s katana-like glare. “Don’t sass me, sweetheart, I am beyond mad at you right now.”

“I- wait, okay,” he manages, but as he’s trying to lean on the countertop, he slips, because, as it turns out, the countertop is a little further to the right than previously (five seconds/minutes/hours who can tell anymore) anticipated.

“Okay? No, not okay, Dean, you left Sam here all night and didn’t call and now you- ” fuck fuck fuck fucking fuck. Mary’s face says it all, says her shock and awe at how fucking terrible Dean is, “are you drunk, Dean?”

“M’ybe,” he hiccups, and to truly answer her question, he slides down onto the kitchen chair and almost misses.

“You stink like a brewery,” she breathes and she does sound beyond angry, she sounds beyond everything, like Dean’s everything she never thought he’d be. “I thought this had stopped, Dean. We talked about this.”

“About?” But he knows he’s playing, he knows what they talked about, but it didn’t matter under hot lights and hotter music and hot _Cas_ being _hot_ , to be frank.

“I can’t have you behaving like this, Dean,” she sighs, her hair clawed up in frustration/her fingers. It’s shorter than it’s ever been, because days where she could feel free are done with.

Dean’s voice is like a dirty useless foghorn, and there’s a part of him that hopes that Sam isn’t listening, but he’s always listening. “Oh, and you’re mother of the year, are you?”

Her fists clench, and it’s sometimes hard to recall, but then Dean can, that his mother was able to take down his ex-marine, built-like-a-steam-roller father in less than a minute when they first met, in that one small movement, and Dean can’t help it, he swallows a whole lump of instinctual fear. “Dean, stop.”

“No, actually, I won’t, it’s not my fault I’m such a fuck up, y’know,” he argues, feeling drool slobber between his lips, down his shirt. He feels like he’s melting apart, like his tongue might just decide there are greener pastures and leave. He’s had a _lot_ to drink tonight.

“I didn’t wanna lecture you, but I got your grades, Dean. I got your grades, and you haven’t done your application, and you- ” she chokes on tears that he caused, his fault, Dean the Fuck-Up, “I can’t watch you waste your potential like this, dammit, Dean!”

“Who even cares, it’s not like you’re here to watch anyway,” he spits out, and he knows it’s a low blow because Mary doesn’t deserve that, but resentment is rarely rational or fair.

“Y’know what?” she sneers, because regardless of Mary’s loving nature, her kindness only stretches so far before the beast rears its magnificent head to bare its teeth. She can only take so much. “You sound _exactly_ like your father.”

It’s a stab in the neck, really, those immortal words. Dean can think of nothing he wants more and nothing he wants less less less than to end up like John Winchester. “No…”

“If you wanna drink your youth away and end up with a beer gut and a GED, be my guest, but don’t you _dare_ come to me and act like this has been easy on this family,” and despite the snarl of her words, they come out strained with tears, a losing battle against the tirade of emotions storming out of an over-worked widow with a kid genius and an tumour-esque asshole for offspring. Three guesses who the cancerous sore is. “You think I like spending all my time stinking of disinfectant and death, Dean? Do you? Do you think I enjoy never seeing the people I love for more than snippets at a time?”

“Mom- ”

“Forget it, Dean. You’re almost an adult, you want me to treat you like one? Fine. I don’t want to see you like this again, or you’re out from under this roof. I’m not going to let Sam grow up thinking this behaviour is acceptable.”

And there it is.

BEEP BEEP! And there her pager goes, too. Always inopportune. Always on the brink of disaster and it whips her away before she’s flung over the edge. Leaves Dean flailing cartoonishly until he’s flattened against the cold hard ravine floor. Hilarious. Manic laughter. The roadrunner parps and Dean’s shaking with the hollowness of his mother’s words.

“Dean?” a smaller hand touches his shoulder and he looks into soulful young eyes, “Dean, your phone’s ringing a lot.

He hands the device to him, and it can’t be anyone important, everyone who he cares about was at that party and got thoroughly wasted, right?  
  
“Hey, what-”

Charlie breathes too quickly on the other side of the line, “Dean?! Please, help, there’s been an accident- ”

Dean’s stomach drops out in a cold sweat and he’s on the phone to Anna before he can even get a handle on his motor skills.


	10. laughing with

Before he even gets the idea to call her, Anna’s hammering at his front door. She forces him to down at least four glasses of water so he can throw up any last vestiges of quasi-alcohol poisoning but it seems, at least at this point, that Dean’s internalised the majority of his vomit. Probably accumulating in his personality at this point.

He straps in and leans his heavy head against her truck’s window, regretting everything he has ever done and said. Mainly he’s worried that he’ll never get to thank Mrs Bradbury for her incredible patience or that he’ll never get to awkwardly shake Mr Bradbury’s hand again or that Charlie might move away and she won’t have him around anymore. He doesn’t realise he’s hyperventilating until the sensation of Anna pushing him forward, head between his knees, takes over, and he shoves at her so she’ll stop collapsing his lungs.

“What the fuck, Anna?” he gasps.

Fwap! He’s been slapped before, sure, but never by Anna, never by her. He runs his palm over where she hit him, and he can see the tears forming in her eyes.

“I can’t do this without you, Dean,” she whispers, “I can’t lose you, too.”

He snorts, “Way to go on that,” he sulks, his arms crossed and his mind blissfully clear. Anna sighs, content with whatever peace she’s accidentally created, and they spend the rest of the journey in silence.

Could’ve gotten to that point without mild assault, but then Dean’s life has never been a cake-walk.

 

* * *

 

 

They aren’t allowed to see either of the elder Bradbury’s, family only, but they’re allowed to see Charlie and it’s more than enough.

Except it’s not it’s not it’s not. Charlie’s banged up pretty badly herself, scratches and bruises all over. She has a patch over her eye that he’s sure she’d be thrilled about if she were conscious.

She’s never looked so small. She’s always been so much larger than her body that to see her confined to it, it breaks something in Dean to the point where he manages to feel even mildly sober.

Cas and Hannah are already there, thank god, both of them on Charlie’s uncovered eye’s side. Hannah’s slumped over on the bed, holding Charlie’s hand for dear life. Cas sits further back, his chin pillowed onto his chest. He isn’t bound. He was probably woken up if the four layers are anything to go by.

When he and Anna walk in, staring fairly loudly at Charlie, this seems to wake Cas up.

“Anna, Dean- ” his eyes drowsily shift to them, “you’re alright.”

Anna walks over to Cas and sits by him, but Dean can’t do much more than sway over all four of them. If he sits he’ll never get up.

Despite the openness of his expression now, Dean can’t stop seeing the look on Cas’s face earlier that night, and he hates himself even more, because how could he possibly be thinking of that at a time, a place, like this? He wants to kick himself.

“Dean, do you want to sit?” Cas asks, Anna’s head having leaned over onto his shoulder at some point since she came in. She looks exhausted.

Dean shakes his head, throat too full to talk.

Cas nods slowly, pulling Anna’s hand into his lap and stroking the back of it, soothingly. Dean’s chest clenches.

“Do we, uh, what- what happened?” Dean asks.

Cas doesn’t look up, “Drunk driver. Coming back from Gabe’s party. Some kid named Ion? He and his girlfriend died on impact,” he swallows around it, “and Mr and Mrs Bradbury- ”

He doesn’t get past it, letting go of Anna’s hand and wringing his own. “I shouldn’t’ve left so soon.”

And there it is. Cas is feeling the guilt where he shouldn’t, when he left because Dean’s disgusting, Dean is so -

“Cas, I hate to ask, but have you seen Jo?” Anna bursts out, her foot restless against the linoleum.

Cas looks at Anna kindly, as is his way in those rare little moments. “She’s outside the ICU. She’s waiting to see when we can go in.”

Anna nods quickly, and before she goes, she kisses Cas on the cheek. “Thanks.”

She flounces out, and Dean doesn’t hate Anna, he loves her like a sister, but he’s still not sober enough to ignore the thrum of green under his skin.

And with Hannah and Charlie asleep, Dean and Cas are alone. Dean gulps, too audible in the claustrophobic room, and shifts on his feet. He can’t look at Cas, he can’t look at anyone. He had to be here, but he shouldn’t have come, not like this.

“Are you feeling… unwell, still, Dean?” Cas probes. He picks at his fingernails.

Dean shakes his head slowly, scolded child incarnate.

Cas keeps trying, though, of course he tries, “Are you… Dean, are you going to be alright?”

Dean grunts, because if he doesn’t he doesn’t think he’ll be able to be much more articulate anyway. “I’ll be alright when Charlie’s alright.”

He’s blinking back tears, and he knows that Cas knows that he is. For a minute, Dean’s terrified that Cas doesn’t think he’s strong enough anymore. That he doesn’t think Dean can handle Cas’s stuff, handle his vulnerability, and while that’s true to an extent, he doesn’t want Cas to fall back into that void. Dean can’t let that happen. He just doesn’t quite know how to prevent it. Lucky Cas does though.

He scuffs his shoe and it makes a shrill sound which they both flinch at. “Is that… Benny, he’s in college.”

“Is he?” Dean blushes so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t pass out right there.

Cas shrugs. “He seems nice…”

“I- Look, I didn’t even know I was further along the spectrum until tonight, okay?” he lies. He lies because he knew as soon as he came across a person passionate enough about being themselves that they wore more layers than an onion in a place like Lawrence, Kansas. He just didn’t want to say, barely wanted to think it because then John would’ve been fucking right, and despite the leather jacket, despite the muscle car, despite the pile upon pile of hair metal cassette tapes, Dean didn’t want to prove his father right. Dean instead rubs his hand up the stubble of his neck and smiles, hollow pumpkin of a grin. “Anyway, doubt he’d wanna repeat sesh with a train wreck like me.”

Cas squints at Dean, as is his way, as is his way with Dean, anyway, “He’d be an idiot not to.”

Dean’s hollow smile widens, “You smooth talker, you,” he finally takes a seat next to him. “I don’t know, I thought you might… think I’m weird or something. Or a- a slut.”

Cas grabs Dean’s arm, pulling it onto his lap and tracing up and down Dean’s wrist, following the veins, blue and untouched by freckles.

“Dean,” Cas looks nigh-on _soulfully_ into Dean’s eyes, “don’t be a fucking idiot.”

It’s so abrupt, so solemn, paired with the serious look, Dean can’t help but laugh, pulling Cas into an awkward version of the Dean Hug, bone-crushing and soul-fulfilling (or so he’s heard). He slaps Cas’s back and the sound reverberates loudly enough that Hannah actually damn well wakes up.

She looks like her feathers have been thoroughly ruffled, hair for once not pristine, nothing about her’s pristine. If Charlie were awake, she’d appreciate it, probably. “Why are you… noising?”

“Is that even a word?” Dean laughs, but it falls on a bum note, because now Hannah’s awake it’s harder to swallow that Charlie’s in this condition. “Can I..?”

Hannah’s eyes widen and she looks fond (too soft too often tonight, it’s almost like she doesn’t hate him or something) groggily getting to her feet. “O’course. She’s your…”

She looks down at Charlie and her bottom lip wobbles, so unreal Dean’s hard-pressed to believe he’s still in his own universe.

Of course Cas is there to save the day, “Hannah, let’s go get some coffee, okay?”

Hannah turns to him, and it’s hard to believe right now that she was the one defending his honour not six months ago. And here they all are. So it goes, or whatever. She nods, her entire being watery, and they file out together, in-step despite everything.

And so Dean is alone.

Obviously, since he’s a huge baby, that’s the moment he starts crying. It’s so damn innocuous at first, just some deep breathing to overcome the swell that’s rising in his ribs. But it starts to crash against his insides and he finds himself in Hannah’s seat, clutching Charlie’s hand for dear life (oh god he hates that he means that so fucking literally), grabbing at the paisley sheets because how on earth is this okay? How the fuck does anyone get to do this? Why didn’t he do something, why didn’t he stop this from ever happening?

“Charlie, I’m so- fuck, I’m so sorry, I got wasted, I was so fuckin’ stupid… come back, okay? Please come back please come back pleasecomeback, I promise- I promise I’ll do, um, your chores for like a decade, and, and I’ll play those piece of shit first-person shooters, and I’ll cover for you for when you need to make out with Hannah during movie night,” he’s choking on his own spit, his own tears, his own snot, and he’s so beyond caring about breathing, he just needs her to know, “and I know I’m a jackass, and I know this is so fucking selfish, but I need you, I fucking love you and I fucking need you. Don’t fucking _leave_ me, you _asshole._ ”

He probably continues like that for what feels like hours until he feels weak hands card through his hair, fingernails barely scraping the scalp.

A tired voice. “Hey, dumbass.”

Charlie’s awake, nose doo-hicky stuck all up in her business, pale as the sickly wall paint, smelling like burnt rubber and anesthetic, and she’s still using her dumb face to smile.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again, you hear me?” he attempts a laugh, but it ends up a choked-up sob, hurdy-gurdying its way from the last bullshit episode. He grabs at her, burying his face in her stomach, and she keeps carding her fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, Dean, you’ve gotta talk to me,” she murmurs.

He can talk later. First, he’s gonna wait, just bask in the fact that his best friend’s okay, just hang tight in this in-between state where Charlie’s okay, the Bradbury’s are stable, and Cas doesn’t hate him. He can stay here, just for a while.


	11. T2, man, c'mon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is late! but it is lengthier (ayy) than last week so?? PLUS /new/ things happen, how exciting! 
> 
> also: the whole thing's plotted out now, so keep those loins girded (lookin' at you, maddi)

Dean’s a solid presence for the next couple of weeks, doing his work, keeping his head down, doing what he can when he’s at the hospital. Mary’s become accustomed to having him drive her to and from shifts. Neither of them say a damn thing about the fact that Dean _should_ be spending his free time studying and sleeping, they both know that it wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

Going to the hospital consists of: meeting Charlie there, bringing her coffee and food and magazines (gossip rags aren’t all as bad as people say), he even brings his guitar one time. He plays “Hey Jude” and sings out of tune until Charlie pushes it out of the way to wrap her arms around his middle. The diner’s been all but forgotten, as Jo, Anna, Hannah and Cas all switch out with each other so that Dean and Charlie aren’t totally alone together forever.

Gertrude Bradbury’s a damn strong women, and that’s pretty fuckin’ literal too; before she settled down in Kansas, she was an Olympic weight lifter, went home with plenty of golds and silvers. Dean sometimes reckons that’s why, despite Charlie being such a weed, she can leave bruises with a light grip, she gets scared of being too passionate, because the universe has a shitty sense of humour. Yeah, she’s on life-support, but there’s a good chance that she’ll wake up.

Cal Bradbury… he’s. Yeah. They’re not talkin’ about it.

Despite group efforts, Charlie’s been living on fruit roll-ups and awful coffee, so a week down the road Dean’s dragging her back home with him and cooking up some pizza rolls. What? Slightly more nutritious. Also, warm food has healing powers. Sometimes.

“Charlie, _wait_ , you’re gonna burn your mouth!”

“Dude, this is the best food I’ve ever had,” Charlie moans then- “Haaa _aaaaa_ , fuck, _hot! My mouth!_ ’

Dean tries not to sound like a sitcom character when he sighs long-sufferingly, but it’s pretty damn hard. “Why would we listen to Dean? It’s not like he’s a beacon of pizza-burn wisdom or anything.”

“Stop your grumbling, I’m wounded,” Charlie mutters.

Dean mock-gasps, “So’s my _dignity_ ,” and he pretends to faint, prompting a little laugh out of her.

The keys rattle in the lock and the room goes way too quiet. Mary pops her head in and smiles, but it’s plastered on, not her usual soft mom-smile.

“Hey, kids,” she says, before tutting at herself, “did I really just say that?”

Charlie laughs, but it’s empty. Obviously Dean told her everything, and Charlie loves Mary as much as anyone that’s ever frickin’ met her, but she also knows Mary hasn’t said anything to Dean since the whole John mark 2 comment. The house has been sufficiently icy, to say the least.

“Got some pizza burn, but it’s nice to feel sensation again,” Charlie jokes.

But of course, Mary’s also a nurse, with a bucketload of empathy, so she can’t help but drop everything and hug Charlie. Dean wants to pile in, but there’s a wire between him and his Mom, and he’s scared he’ll slice off an arm or two if he tries. It’s fine, he can be supportive on the other side of the table.

Charlie takes full advantage of the mom-hug (“where d’ya think I get it from?” Dean would always protest) and buries her head in mom-smell, even if it isn’t even her’s. She pulls away and wipes her nose, a dark mark blooms on Mary’s scrubs.

“Sorry for the bodily fluids, I’ve been meaning to get rid of my tear ducts,” Charlie mumbles, hiccupping as she does.

Mary smiles at her, rubs her shoulder a couple times, “Honey, trust me, I’ve had way worse.”

She nods at Dean and he just… looks down. This is so weird. He hears her go up the stairs, the fourth from the top wobbling a little extra, probably because she’s looking back at him, before continuing up.

Charlie looks back at Dean, her face all hard despite the snot and tears. “Dude.”

Dean looks back at her, “What?” All nonchalant like he doesn’t know exactly ‘what’.

“You know exactly what,” Charlie bites back. Damn, he needs new friends, if only to get models sans the telepathy deal. “You and your mom. I’ve never seen you guys so weird with each other, and it’s obvious you’re both sorry, so- ”

She makes a frustrated noise, “Don’t fuckin’ _waste_ it, Dean!”

He nods, but he doesn’t mean it. He understands how shitty everything is for her right now (seriously, Dean can only imagine having _both_ parents out for the count, and it’s not like the Bradbury’s deserved-) Charlie doesn’t know. Fuck, no one really knows, not even Sammy. He doesn’t know why Mary’s words cut so deep. Actually, not cut, that’s not impressive enough for the void she broke inside him. Unless you can call the Mariana Trenches a cut. And Dean knows he’s being internally melodramatic, but there’s no where else he can be so-

“Yo, earth to Dean, earth to Dean, do you copy?” Charlie waves in front of his face.

“Yeah, man, you’re right,” he stretches a smile on his lips, “I’ll talk to her.” He gets up, “You wanna watch something?”

They sit in silence, watching some show or another, something they’ve both seen a trillion times, and it’s fine, they both need a break. Charlie from her actual problems and Dean from his stupid not-even-really-problems problems. He can’t tell her about Benny. And he knows Cas hasn’t said anything because even with everything that’s been happening, Charlie would still possess the wherewithal to proceed with an in-depth investigation, especially with her favourite straight boy.

So he’s- he doesn’t have to think about it, about any of it. And he stares at the flickering screen way past his eyes’ capacities to actually stare; at one point he’s sure he dozes off with them still being open.

He’s being shaken awake a couple hours (maybe?) after that, Charlie drooling on his shoulder.

“No…”

“Yes,” Sam sighs, and he slaps a wet flannel right onto his fACE WHAT THE DICK IS THIS.

“What the f- _heck_ , Sam?!” He cries, jumping up like a cat possessed by lightning, “Why, what, _what_?! I have been nothing but good to you!”

“Tell it someone that cares,” Sam deadpans, and he shoves Charlie awake too. “Mom told me to wake you up before she went to bed.”

Dean groans, because he’s still got dishwater running down his face and a crick in his neck, and now he’s _awake_ to experience it all, and he so won’t be able to get back to sleep after this.

“Wanna play twister with me?” Sam asks, “It’s only like, ten. On a Saturday. You’re allowed,” and for some reason he sounds so damn reasonable, that a few minutes later Charlie’s calling out monotone colour/body part combinations and Dean’s cursing out (pretty loudly) whoever invented the ‘in the air’ option whilst simultaneously deciding he needs to cut down on the cheeseburgers and maybe do more stretches sometime.

He goes to bed that night genuinely bone-tired and satisfied for the first time in months, to the point where he forgets why that actually is.

Reality can suck it.

 

* * *

 

 

Not literally, obviously. Dean wishes it could, because honestly, just passing the diner puts a rock in his guts. School just keeps blurring the more he goes and acts like a cog, and the only thing that’s bringing him out of it is that Cas didn’t turn up today.

Dean finds him in their usual booth, and Cas gets… weirdly startled.

“What the hell, Cas, you’re skippin’ school again?” Cas answers with a roll of the eyes, and Dean has never sounded so… _mom-like_.

“I haven’t seen everyone together in a while, I just… wanted to emulate the feeling of the group,” Cas states, his plate of fries looking particularly sad.

“How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

“Not well,” he admits.

Dean orders two cheeseburgers, two more sides of fries and two mint milkshakes, because truly, he’s a masochist at heart. Cas quirks an eyebrow at him as if he knows this, but says nothing because he’s truly one of the best guys that Dean knows.

“Have you done Ms. Mosely’s assignment, yet?” Cas asks, mouth smeared with ketchup.

Dean passes the napkins over without comment, “Did it last week, dude, where you been?” He flexes, although his arms have had zero definition his entire life, it’s hardly gonna change the moment he tries to impress- whatever. “I’ve been T2-ing the fuck outta this semester.”

Cas frowns, little crease between his eyebrows that can only mean a misunderstood film reference,  “T2?”

Honestly, what has this kid been doing before he met Dean? “T-Terminator 2? I? Who are you?”

A bored look crosses Cas’s face, “We’ve been over this, Dean, I do not enjoy James Cameron’s repertoire,” he shoves a handful of fries into more (MORE?!) ketchup and devours them, “I can appreciate that he’s talented but his stories are boring and far too long.”

“You’re… boring and far too long,” he grumbles, and Cas shoots mint milkshake right out of his nose he’s laughing so hard, and really Dean should be so fucking grossed out, because _mint milkshake with a side of mucus what the fuck_ but. But Cas’s laugh is the weirdest, snorty, messy affair, and so rare it’s like Aurora Borealis with a side of lactose poison.

Dean spends the next two hours telling Cas all about the merits of T2 over literally everything else that James Cameron’s ever directed, whilst animatedly summarising the plot, which turns into an impromptu re-enactment that Dean gets in trouble for when he starts shooting straw packets out and impersonating Arnie so hard several customers give him a little clap once he’s done. Cas looks positively starry-eyed (no biggie) but remains unconvinced.

“So, have you spoken to Benny, lately?”

“Jesus, Cas, conversational whiplash much?” Dean can feel the blush high on his cheeks.

Cas just shrugs and trails a finger around in the ketchup, sketching a face on his plate, “You seemed to like him, I thought…” he shrugs again, like he’s doin’ the hustle or some shit, “I could get his number for you, if you’d like.”

His face is so open and still, Dean forgets that he’s probably meant to say something back. “Wh- how?” So smooth, so long.

“I am friends with people other than you, Dean,” Cas smirks, “I work in mysterious ways.”

“Oh please,” Dean chuckles, “but seriously, um… I’d at least like to apologise for being a total vom-fest. That can’t have been fun.”

Cas leans back a little, “And where is _my_ heartfelt apology?”

Dean snorts, puts one hand on his heart and another on Cas’s hand (too soft, way too soft, abort, abort!), comes out with a damn smoulder, get those damn Disney eyes workin’.

“Cas, I am… so sorry for throwing up in the vicinity of your flamingo shirt. It was a truly hurtful trespass, please… forgive me.”

And god, it was meant to be a joke, but Dean’s not taking his hand away, ( _and neither’s Cas-)_ and they’ve been staring at each other for way too long now.

The loud _zzzzrt!!!_ that erupts from between them is Dean’s phone and his burger threatens to make an unwanted encore.

He stares down at the picture of Charlie modelling an eggplant as his phone almost vibrates right off the table. Cas looks up at Dean like- like he knows. But he can’t because that’s impossible. Cas can’t know how terrified Dean’s been to answer the phone recently, that he’s kept it off most days and shoved it to the back of the Impala’s glovebox more times than he can count.

Cas pushes the phone towards Dean, so obviously Dean picks it up.

Charlie’s voice is shaky yet clear as a damn bell, “Dean, Mom’s awake.”

 

* * *

 

 

Gertrude has the loudest, most bellyful laugh Dean’s ever heard from a woman that’s only been awake from a coma for six hours.

“Can somebody get me some steak? Mary, sweetheart, can I have steak in here?” Dean loves her.

“Gert, my love, you can’t have red meat right away,” Mary laughs, because when Gertrude’s crackin’ up, so’s everyone within a twenty-mile radius. “but I could swing you an extra jelly pot!”

Gertrude pumps her arm down with a whispered ‘yes’, “Score. Can Charlie have something delicious too?” She hasn’t let go of Charlie since she woke up, apparently. Dean believes it. “Some pudding or something, the sickly sweet kind, makes your teeth rot,” she cuts herself off by muzzling into Charlie’s face and covering her cheeks with kisses. “Missed you, Red.”

Charlie’s just, well, ecstatic, like she’d been holding her breath for two weeks and has finally let it out. She’s deflated and elated. “Yeah, yeah, could’a fooled me.”

Dean wants to hug Mary too, but she’s busy and there’s still that cheese-wire of weirdness between them that he’s still too scared to get past.

He sees wriggling out of the corner of his eye, and spots Charlie looking a little uncomfortable.

“You okay, there?”

“Nngh, nothing,” Charlie insists, but she’s practically breaking out into the Charleston.

Gertrude kicks her off the bed, “If you need to pee, pee, sweetheart.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not if my lovely blue sheets turn yellow, you’re not,” Gertrude chuckles. “Go on, I’ll be here when you get back.”

Charlie has a spooked look on her face like she doesn’t quite believe her, but she skitters off anyway. Dean can’t blame her, he knows how he’d be if Dad came back. He’d probably piss himself easy, with a wide grin on his face.

“Dean, honey, c’mere,” Gertrude waves her arms towards her and Dean barely hesitates before he’s on the other side of Charlie’s indentation. “You been lookin’ after my baby?”

“Always, ma’am.”

“Good, good,” she sighs, a little puff of air, “no one’s telling me what happened to Werner.”

Dean freezes up. “Huh,” like he has no idea what she wants him to tell her. Of course he does.

“Nice try, kid,” she rubs little circles in his shoulder, “but I guess if you’re not even telling me straight, it’s bad,” she breathes deep. “Okay. Okay,” like she’s convincing him more than herself.

“How’d you two crazy kids meet, anyhow?” He tries so hard to deflect, and he knows how transparent he is and he doesn’t care.

“Oh, Dean, you know how it is. You’re throwing down a 12kg barbell and some punk asks you for your autograph and the rest is history,” she chuckles and Dean closes in tighter, “love at first sight and all that jazz.”

Dean doesn’t wanna poke the bear, but he’s gotta know, “Do you think you’ll ever, y’know… have you ever…” Okay, so maybe poking the bear would happen if he could talk properly.

But Gertrude seems to get it, even if she takes some time to answer, her voice unnaturally calm and quiet, “I didn’t even think love like that existed until I met him. He’s- I mean, yes, he’s my husband, and we fight and stuff, but he’s also my best friend. He supports me, and respects me, and thinks of me when he does his own stuff. Thoughtful, that’s it,” her voice gets lower, “and we’re… just right together. I looked at him and I saw the future, a future where I was happy more than sad and proud and not alone, and I still do.”

The door slams open and Dean sits up straight to see Charlie at the door. “That was quick, did you even open a stall?”

She sticks her tongue out at him as he dismounts, while getting onto her side and cuddling up to Gertrude. “Guys in the men’s room are super narrow-minded, bee-tee-dubs.”

Gertrude howls with laughter and Dean takes that as his cue.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas is friggin’ true to his word, presenting Benny’s number to him without a single word (unless shrugs count as words, because he has been doing that _a lot_ lately) between Bio and lunch, probably so none of the gang see.

“Dude, thanks,” Dean breathes. Cas shrugs again and Dean feels the needs to have the guy wear weights on his shoulders so he’ll stop friggin’ doing that.

He has zero intention of calling the guy.

Seriously.

Except life is weird.

“Hello, sugar,” Benny drawls, leaning right back against the Impala. They’re in the middle of his _high school’s parking lot_ and he’s all tall and stubbly and gorgeous and _in college_ this is unbelievable.

Dean pulls him by his jacket, because once you’ve grinded (ground? grounded? who gives a-) on some dude and know what sound he makes when you bite his lip, man-handling is the next logical step, “Not here,” he growls at Benny, shoving him into the passenger seat.

He texts Cas that he’ll call him later, and Benny sits tight. “Sorry, darlin’, didn’t know you weren’t out yet. Considerin’ how handsy you were that night- ”

“Yeah, uh-huh, sorry,” he puts his phone away, “why, um, why _are_ you here?” And he’s being super rude, he can hear Anna scolding him in his head, but seriously, “not that I don’t- um.”

“Um?” Benny crooks an eyebrow at that, “Lotta possibilities in that lil um.”

God, his voice is so smooth, christ, get it together, Dean. “Sorry. About that night.”

Benny visibly deflates, “O-oh. Fuck, I’m sorry,”

“I mean! For the vomiting,” Dean’s blushing again, (he should really not do that) rubbing his neck obsessively fast, “not the best first impression, y’know?”

Dean looks over, braves it to find Benny smiling privately to himself. “You are the sweetest thing,” he murmurs, “you feelin’ like a lil detour?”

He puts his hand on Dean’s thigh and that blush is _not_ going away anytime soon. Dean puts his foot on the gas and speeds the whole way to somewhere quiet and far away from everything (especially his mother, god, he’d die if she knew). He’s barely taken the key out of the ignition before Benny launches at him, attacking his mouth and pulling at his clothes. They make out for a while until Benny pulls away, leaving Dean’s whole jaw feeling tingly with the absence. Then Benny starts going lower and Dean can’t quite believe this is his life right now.

God, his head is spinning and Benny’s mouth feels so good and tight and _fuck_ , he is… masterful at this whole, uh, thing.

“Oh, yeah, B-Benny, right- fuck, never even thought about this before…”

He looks down, not dazed enough to miss the unconvinced look on Benny’s face, his lips stretched red around Dean’s cock (which is, y’know, average-sized, Dean can’t exactly complain).

His head thuds back into the seat and the windows are getting steamed up, and it all feels too good, too claustrophobic, then Benny pulls off and starts jackin’ him, fast and filthy (could totally be a porn spin-off). He crawls up Dean’s body, his hand perfect, whispering so much stuff into Dean’s ear that Dean almost passes out with how good it feels, and then he’s coming into Benny’s hand with a stilted cry, his fist rumpling up Benny’s shirt so hard a button pops open. Then it’s all over and he’s sticky and cold and gross and staring into a pair of beautiful eyes.

“That was…” he breathes, lips barely able to move in general, let alone express how awesome ‘that’ was.

Benny smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do try,” he chuckles.

Now he’s back on one singular plane of existence, Dean can feel Benny’s hard-on digging into his leg. They both seem to be just… looking at it for more time than is probably deemed appropriate.

“You, uh, want me to help you with that?” Dean asks, and he’s curious yeah, but… there’s something tugging at his gut that makes this feel more reciprocal than the fact that he’s anywhere near ready for this.

Benny raises an eyebrow, “Dean, if you’re sure- ”

But Dean’s sinking to his knees before he can say anything else. He spends a little time just rubbing Benny’s thighs, slowly. Benny’s got the hungriest look in his eyes, like he wants to take Dean apart, not bother to put him back together again.

Dean unzips Benny’s bulging corduroys (the guy’s got style, at least) and rubs over his cock through his boxers. He can see a healthy thatch of hair through the slit, and a little bit of pink as he keeps rubbing, inexpert as they come (heh).

“Don’t be shy, it won’t bite,” Benny murmurs again, and Dean decides, fuck it. He pulls it out and it’s… lovely’s a weird word for a dick, but it’s still fitting. Uncut, thick, he’s watched enough guy-on-guy porn to know it’s a pretty nice dick.

Dean looks up at Benny, who’s a brain cell away from drooling. He bats his eyelids, leans forward and licks, puts on a real show. He knows he’s sloppy, but he’s hoping hard that it’s endearing rather than disappointing, his spit practically soaking Benny’s boxers black. Benny’s writhing and his hips keep making juddering starts forward, like he’s dying to fuck Dean’s mouth.

Eventually, once Dean gets over the initial confusion, he gets into a rhythm, and keeps licking Benny’s slit like Benny did for him, looking up at him as often as possible.

“God, yeah, just like that, god, you like that, huh?” Benny groans and Dean’s dick feels like it might get hard again, “Fuck, mouth’s so good, baby, _ugh_ , my little cockslut,” wait wait, no, “so good for me-e-e, uhhh,” and that’s all she wrote, come pumping into Dean’s mouth, salty and too much all at once.

He chokes a little on it, but his heart’s stuttering and he’s no longer hard. Wiping his mouth away he stares into space while Benny catches his breath.

“You okay, baby?” Benny asks, stroking Dean’s cheek lazily, slumping into his seat. Dean puts on a smile.

“Yeah, that was… woah,” he emphasises widening his eyes, “it was great.”

Benny’s eyes get drawn to Dean’s lips and he traces them carelessly. “Love those lips, mmm,” he says before leaning back.

Dean drops him off and tears up the number Cas gave him. There’s just noise in his head now, the gentle buzz gone from his limbs and it sucks (just like him, apparently). Slut. Slut?

He doesn’t even know what kind of freak he is anymore. Dad was right. Even when he’s dead, he’s fucking right. Dean doesn’t get out of bed the whole weekend. No one makes him. It’s peace adjacent.


	12. got your six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to glob that everyone will stop fucking crying after this chapter (lol jk) also warnings for: dean x other, emetophobia cw, hints at alcoholism, y'know, all that fun stuff

Dean’s been spending so much time staring at a blank screen that he doesn’t know what day it is. So much for life’s vocation. His fingers shake over the keys, ready to press and paint a picture, but there’s a voice at the back of his head, moaning and shouting, turned on and angry all at once, and gravity just doesn’t seem to work these days.

He should’ve told him to stop. Except he wanted it, he’d definitely wanted it, through and through just- a little shaky on the dismount. Less blue ribbon, more rock-bottom self-esteem. Like, seriously, self-esteem sleeping with the goddamn angler fishes (do those things even sleep? fuck knows Dean does).

Just a little over the edge, something to boost the story. Except, it’s slowly dawning on Dean that the story’s lost its way. It doesn’t know what it’s about anymore. It’s having a midpoint crisis and it’s driving Dean up the wall with frustration.

He should get out of the house, but where the fuck would he even go? Cas needs some damn space for all Dean’s constantly bothering him, and he _knows_ Cas will ask about Benny and Dean’s just not ready to cry in front of Cas like _that_. Charlie’s- well, Charlie’s got a truckload more to do than deal with Dean, Jo’s busy with Kevin and Anna’s busy filling her portfolio to the brim. And he and Hannah? Well, they’re not exactly good together without their respective buffers (Dean’s surprised neither of them have peed on said buffers yet).

_James had never seen such a huge guardian in his life. His shoulders were broad and filled out his dated armour like liquid granite._

_“S’where d’ya want me, sugar?” He muttered in that honey-sweet drawl. James didn’t even blink._

_“It’s not where I want you, it’s when. I need a transponder from the 21st century in order to intercept the signal- ”_

_Denny held up a mountainous paw, “Say nothin’ more, gorgeous. I’ve got your back.”_

_Smith blasted out a smaller rip and Denny winked at the two of them before disappearing into the swirling vortex that swallowed him up like yesterday’s MealHacket._

_“Sure you wouldn’t want to slice off a piece of that, ‘sugar’?” Smith mocked, but James had seen that familiar haze of lust in the peddler’s eyes. He rolled his own and elbowed Smith where his ribs would’ve been._

_“I need you to be alert, not sniffing after sentient bulks, Smith,” James grumbled, not knowing why his programming was malfunctioning. His chest felt tighter at the thought of… what?_

Wishful thinking, indeed.

Dean closes the laptop, his own chest tight with something he can’t name (can’t, won’t, semantics are a pain in the ass). His head has felt heavy for weeks now, like it can’t contain everything that’s been colliding around him.

So he does the only thing he can do; he lies in his bed, covers tangling in his legs, and stares at a particular crack in the corner of his ceiling until he forgets who he is.

_Not to be dramatic but: a lifetime ago_

Their house used to be new, back to just after Sam was born. Their last house had burned down but luckily nothing except ex-Marine John and a freshly-scrubbed Mary’s worldly possessions had been hurt. Lots and lots of world possessions. They’d moved out further, to the borders of town, a little farm with a huge barn and fields rolling out as far as the eye could see.

John’s old man had left it to him when he’d died, a huge family estate for the agriculturally-inclined Winchester clan. All Dean had seen were the grassy plains that spelt freedom, regardless that in the all-too present, they didn’t really mean anything anymore. He’d pretended to be a fighter jet, shooting down at enemies left and right. All he’d wanted to be was the pride of John Winchester. He couldn’t manage it in this lifetime, he’d done that himself.

“Hey, Dean-o, wanna pilot your old man?” John’s smile was stained by time but at the time Dean remembers feeling like it was the safest thing in the world. He’d hopped up on John’s shoulders and continued his assault on imaginary enemies.

“Pew-pew, pew-pew!”

“Watch out for Sammy, he’s got your six, remember that,” John warned.

Dean rolled his eyes, “He’s a baby, dad, he can’t _do_ anything, he can barely keep his head up.”

As if summoned, Mary carried Sam over to where the other two were, and Dean remembers even then, when Sam had loved his brother more than any other thing or person or concept in the world. He’d reach out to him wherever he was and Dean would always snuggle up to him.

“That’s enough’a that gay shit, now, c’mon boys,” John chided, and sometimes Dean wonders why he’s so fucked up. Other times he should know fucking better.

Mary had given him a _look_ but hadn’t said anything except cooing at Sammy and taking him inside for food. Dean also wonders how little he’d show his affection nowadays if John had still been around, if he’d have been as reserved and unnaturally embarrassed of how much he, y’know, whatever’s everyone around him as John had made him feel in that moment where he’d just wanted to hug his little baby brother.

This is one of Dean’s first real memories. This is where things seemed to first start going downhill at too rapid a pace to stop. But for that moment, everything was so good, so clean and pure and happy and Dean could ride his Dad’s shoulders and cuddle up to his leather jacket that had once meant goodness and strength and _dad._ Even if it was the lingering smell of whiskey that had made it so irresistible. Even if when things were bad, John would still… be his dad.

If only Dean had had the vision of the next three years, he would’ve taken every drop of liquor in the world and thrown it into the ocean.

He couldn’t though. Lots of things Dean couldn’t fucking manage to do.

And there goes his foray into whatever that was. He sits up groggy but the taste of the recollection sticks in the back of his throat and he throws up, all over his floor. If only there were something actually wrong with him.   
  
Sam comes stampeding in and immediately sniffs the air for alcohol. Fuck.

“Dean,” once his bloodhound check comes up clean, “are you..? Are you okay?”

Dean wipes the vomit off his mouth and gives Sam a sickly little grin, “Sammy, I’m okay, it’s fine,” he stands up, mechanical movements making _him_ feel off, so he wonders briefly what he must look like to Sam, “need some paper towels up in here, amirite?”

Sam looks at him like Sam always does, a mix of mild annoyance and deep-seated worry that no fourteen-year-old should possess.

“You keep standin’ there lookin’ like a guppy, I’m gonna get you to clean this all up for me,” Dean threatens, and Sam wrinkles his nose.

“Aw, no, gross Dean, don’t care how sick you are,” Liar liar, pants on fire, but whatever, “I’m gonna call Mom.”

Dean reaches out for Sam because oh hell no, “Mom deals with enough sick bozos to last her until sainthood, she can sit this one out.”

Sam gives him that incredulous look of his, “You’re not some bozo, you’re her son, and you’re my brother, and your floor smells like meatloaf and a hefty cleaning bill, so no, Mom’s not gonna sit this one out.”

“Sammy, you’re being selfish,” he tries, but Sam’s already gone.

Typical.

 

* * *

 

Mary can’t come home (obviously, jeez, he’s known that since forever, it’s not her fuckin’ fault) but she orders him to the hospital instead. Stupid thoughtful Sammy being all… thoughtful.

Dean prolongs the inevitable Spanish-Mary Inquisition by wandering the halls a little, the linoleum squeaking under his boots. The fluorescents flicker above him too, like something ominous. He misses his own trains of thought, when they were lined with colour and mystery, but there’s been a disconnect lately. Like everything’s monochrome and muffled. It’s a weight on his back, particularly with college looming. He’s not fiddled with a circuitboard in forever, he’s coasting grades-wise, despite the slap on the wrist Devereaux gave him. What is his problem, what is his _deal_? Why can’t he be a normal fucking guy with normal fucking problems.

He stops, right in front of a moving gurney, so it’s awkward for everyone involved. Turning tail, he knows which ex-weight-lifting champ that can cheer him up and give him perspective. Comas tend to do that, he reckons.

But as he approaches Gertrude’s room, Hannah marches out… god, is she _crying_?

“Out of my way, asshole,” she mutters, pushing past him, wiping her face furiously.

But he can’t let her get away, they’re still friends, sort of kind of, “Hannah, what the fuck, dude?”

She’s pulled back weirdly easily, like she needs someone to anchor her down or something. “Why don’t you ask your best friend, ‘what the fuck’?” Hannah sniffs one last time in the general direction of Gertrude’s room. Somehow he doesn’t think Mama Bradbury is the friend Hannah’s referring to.

He walks in cautiously (he hasn’t got _that_ much of a death wish, jeez). Charlie’s sitting by Gertrude, snoring, conked out. Dean stands at the doorway, scuffing his shoes on the tiles.

Charlie doesn’t even turn to him. “Broke it off with her.”

“Figured as much,” but he’s gentle, he’s got to be, she doesn’t need that right now with- well, with everything.

Her face is stony, and Dean forgets (probably everyone does) how terrifying and cold Charlie has the capability of being. She’s so fiercely independent and so fucking _good_ to everyone that when she does let herself relax into being cruel, it’s a rude awakening to say the damn least. But he gets it. God, does he get it. He got it before he’d even met her.

“Wanna talk about it?” Just to be safe.

“What do you think?” She turns and Dean finally sees the tear tracks. Not so unaffected, then.

He doesn’t wanna make her feel any worse, and words always seem to do that these days, so he just does what he can and tugs her red hair in under his chin. It’s an awkward angle, she’s probably getting a crick in her neck, but she’s not budging so they stay like that.

Dean wonders if his friends will ever be happy again. Then he realises it doesn’t matter, because they’re stuck with him until he’s croaked. He squeezes her harder, hopes she can hear his thoughts over her own crying.

 

* * *

 

 

So of course (of fucking damn fuck it course) when Dean’s particularly down and out for the count, he goes to Anna’s to get spectacularly drunk.

“Mary let you off the hook?” Anna slurs, passing over the siphoned $5 chardonnay they snagged from the gift pile of Ms. Milton’s wine cellar. Embarrassing enough that she wouldn’t even admit she ever had it once she’d realised it’s gone missing

Dean chugs it like it’s his life force, swiping his mouth sloppily, “Once she realised I’d just had another, quote unquote, ‘episode’, she let me go.”

“Let you have a lollipop?” She inquires, and apparently it’s a serious enough matter that she’s leaned in considerably closer.

Dean can’t help but gulp. Audibly. “N-no. No sucking on Dean Winchester’s part. I’m a- a winner all the way,” and that’s definitely her big eyes Anna has _such_ big eyes.

She nods but she’s not really listening. And Dean’d be a goddamn liar with eternally smoking asscheeks (literally rather than metaphorically) if he said he’d never thought about it. Why not? She’s into dudes too. Well, she’s into people regardless of gender, but Dean’s a regardless of gender so he counts, right?

Her straight-from-a-bottle red that’s so wild and so _her_ Dean corroborates when she insists it’s natural, because genetics messed up when they didn’t give it to her by default. And her cheekbones are lovely. He’s no artist but he knows what perfection, how beauty can sometimes be objective when you’re an objectively good-looking as Anna is. Her eyes are so damn big.

“You gonna keep staring or are you gonna,” she pauses to barf in her own mouth and swallow it back, “gonna do something about it?”

He nods but he’s not moving otherwise and she grunts and somehow she got on top of him and Anna Milton, childhood best friend, their very own Porthos, is stutteringly grinding on top of Dean’s half-hearted erection and it’s all almost-good that Dean has it in his head that this is a fine idea for longer than a nano-second.

She rucks up his shirt and starts undoing his belt and she whimpers into his mouth, uncoordinated and bad and endearing and if he were to lose it with anyone it’d be Anna, he guesses, thoughts sloppy like his kisses.

But then Jo. Fucking hurricane-not-a-damn-hurricane-do-I-look-like-a-John-Green-novel-to-you-Winchester Joanna Beth Harvelle. Jo that Anna definitely loves more than this, more than crying right onto Dean’s face, even if it’s so smeared with drool he shouldn’t be able to tell but he can, he fucking can, because she isn’t who he wants this to be with either. He loves her, loves her like family, trusts her with his life, but he can’t give her this. It may not mean so much to anyone but him, but dammit, sometimes he has to be a little bit of enough.

He pushes her off him and she gasps like she’s only just snapped out of it. She climbs off him and shakes like a leaf. Then she starts crying and it’s unbearable.

“God, Dean, I miss her and I want her and I love her, why doesn’t she- ” she’s inaudible for a moment, mouthing the words with no breath between her lips to make sounds, “why doesn’t she need me like I need her?”

Dean rubs her back, manages to get as much water into her as possible before tucking her back into bed, clothes kinda smelly but too comfy to take off, apparently.

The impala is compact suddenly, too compact. It’s always meant freedom, but on a Lawrence dusk, where the sky’s meant to be a limit for a so-called bright guy like him, it feels stifling. The road’s never long enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s just getting to sleep, Sam’s snoring audible from Mars, most likely, when he hears someone crooning outside.

“What’s new pussycaaaat? WOAAAHAOWAAHHHH OOHHHH, What’s new pussycaaaaat? WOAHHHH WOAHAHHHH OHHHHH!”

He steps on something as he gets out of bed at- three goddamn _ass o’clock on a fucking Sunday morning_ so safe to say, mood not improved. Barely-avoided hangover also threatening to come back anyway because it forgets its purse in Dean’s frontal lobe.

Dean slams the window open to maybe throw everything that he currently has in his room at this motherfucker until he sees who it is.

“Cas?”

Before he knows it he’s dragging blankets down and attacking Cas with them, wrapping him up and diverting him to the attention of the porch and the concept of sitting down and shutting up. He’s drunk as a skunk, and smells it too. Probably got into Chuck’s stash. The thought makes Dean’s stomach gurgle in sympathy.

“How’d you even get here, numbnuts?”

Cas snorts, “Bi-ike,” he hiccups over his own words, pointing over at the discarded bicycle that looks two sizes too small, “Needed to s-see you.”

Dean’s heart flips a little, “You couldn’t’a waited til me and the rest of the northern hemisphere were conscious?”

He looks up at Dean with a pout, “Do you wish for me to- to leave? In this condition? Very irresponsible, Dean.”

Dean laughs, quietly, so as to not wake Sammy up (thank god they live in the middle of no-where and his brother sleeps like the dead).

“You can stay, should probably stay for breakfast. Maybe even brunch if I’m not a vengeful god.”

Cas then does the absolute worst thing ever: he snuggles into Dean, brushing his thick, kinda sweaty mop of hair into Dean’s chin and sighs like he’s content, like a kitten in Dean’s lap, and Dean’s so fucking thankful for the dark, he’s never been more thankful for someone not seeing him blush like goddamn Sandra Dee pre-sewn-on-leather get-up.

“Cas, y’know I got your six, dude,” because it’s the most appropriate thing to say when someone you… when someone like Cas is holding onto you like you’re _important_ , you’ve gotta let ‘em know that you’re worth that pedestal, that you’re not gonna disappoint them, despite evidence to the contrary. “Whatever you need.”

The boy goes still, and Dean reckons he’s fallen asleep when he looks up at Dean with the most intense stare on his face. He searches Dean’s eyes, like he wants to make sure of something. Dean smirks, cracks a joke, because that’s all he knows, it’s all he’s good for.

“Got somethin’ in my teeth?”

Cas shakes his head, “No,” then presses the gentlest kiss to the hinge of Dean’s jaw.

Colours burst out from under Dean’s eyelids, like the world’s woken up just for them two, and the sky’s on fire, no longer inky blue and depthless, it’s on fire and Dean’s whole body is burning up.

Cas pulls away and that’s when the panic sets in. He doesn’t want this, not! Not like this, he can’t have Cas kiss him, he doesn’t want this for them, he doesn’t want Cas stinking like cheap beer and so vulnerable, he wants more, so much more, for Cas. He, out of everyone in this fucked-up monochrome world, deserves something real and good. Not Dean.

So Dean pulls away, and it’d be imperceptible to anyone except the two of them. And Cas? Cas buries his face in Dean’s chest, breathing heavily like he’s crying.

“Fuck, Cas- ” except the moment Dean touches him, Cas pulls away like he’s burnt.

Cas looks at Dean so… god, he’s so angry, he hasn’t been this kind of angry for as long as he’s known Dean. Dean thought he’d seen it all. Apparently not. “Don’t.”

Dean reaches back out to Cas, his trench coat’s filthy and stained, he wants to toss it in the machine, let Cas wear something fuzzy and toasty and loved to the point of threadbare, but Cas is pulling away and Dean feels something unravel in him. “Please, Cas, c’mon, man!”

Cas gathers himself, “I’m… I get it. I’m not what you…”

He covers his mouth. Uh-oh.

Before Dean can stop him he’s off at break-neck speed, right into the long grass of the fields behind their house. All Dean can do is follow him.


	13. sonny and cher broke up?

Long grass whizzes past his face, too fast, so fast it whips lines across his face. And Dean doesn’t give a shit, can’t give a shit, when Cas is drunk and running too fast too, when he could fall and trip and- and- what if there’s rusted equipment what if there’s broken glass and rabid animals. Dean can hear the breath rasping at the back of his throat, his lungs rubbing hard against one another, and his arms swing like a machine, picking up the pace.

He can hear, only just over his own panting and wheezing (should really get back to running again) the sound of wail-laden breaths, and Cas’s voice sounds reedy and high, like his vocal chords can’t remember such a high register. It would make Dean laugh if he wasn’t so fucking worried.

Then of course, Cas has to come to almost a complete stop a couple feet from Dean, and Dean can’t stop, it’s too late, and he’s _slamming_ right into Cas, winding them both in the (very out of breath) process. Dean rolls off of Cas as soon as he can, because Cas isn’t even wearing binding or a bra, he’s practically naked _he’s gonna catch a cold, great_.

Cas is still breathing raggedly as he sits up. Dean can’t fucking run anymore or else he’s gonna _die_ or some shit, and Cas stops. He doesn’t look at Dean, but he doesn’t leave either. Dean carefully takes his hand away and holds his hand to his chest, slowing his heart rate a little. Cas still hasn’t moved an inch.

That’s when he pulls his knees in and Dean can see the smooth planes of his back in the moonlight. Can see them just fine as they start to shake. He sits up too and puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder, but Cas shrugs it off as soon as he’s made contact.

Dean bites his lip to hold in a scream. He can’t do this. “Cas, I didn’t mean to…”

“What, Dean?” Cas bites back, and he’s definitely crying, fuck, “You can’t… can’t bear it? That someone like me…” He pauses. Dean doesn’t respond. Cas rips up weeds by his hand and chucks it a foot in front of him. He keeps doing it, ripping the ground and dirt up and throwing it and back again. “You think I don’t know? What people _think_ of me?”

Dean sucks in a breath. He’d take down anyone that voiced a bad thought against Cas in a split-second, but that’s not something Cas needs to know right now. “What- what do they think of you, Cas?”

Cas laughs, a bitter thing, slightly undercut by the spit bubble making its way down his chin. “Please. Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m serious, Cas.”

Cas sits forward, his entire body tight with it. “That I’m… somehow less. That I’m missing something vital, that I’m wrong or stupid or- fuck,” a sob let loose, “a _fetish_. That this is somehow sexually appealing? That this is some deviant, perverted thing I’ve got inside me, that it’s something that needs to be purged, or else ignored. I can be-“ he waves his hand, eloquent, coarse hands, “whatever, just not in front of the children, not in front of my friends, my family, my school, my community, my _world_. In private, fine, be as disgusting as you want, but don’t bother anyone else with it. It’s wrong.”

“But you’re not,” Dean shuffles side-ways, around, so he can face Cas, if not look him in the eye. “You’re not any of those things.”

“Who says?” Cas is so fucking quiet, his eyes dark and unfathomable, “I… sometimes it feels like they’re right about me. That I’m broken. That I’m… wrong. That I’m,” he inhales sharply, blinks his tears away at the stars, to spite them for not being as bright as he is, “unlovable?”

Dean feels… hollow. That someone, anyone, would think that about Cas, about anyone like Cas- he wants to set the world on fire, raze it, purify. Suck all the poison out so it’s dry of every bad thought Cas has ever been allowed to believe about himself.

“Cas, please,” he chokes out, starting to feel more and more like a damn One Tree Hill episode than he ever anticipated/wanted, “You’re not. I swear.”

He leans forward, Cas unmoving, but that’s okay, he just needs to listen, “You’re the best person I’ve ever known. You’re not broken, or wrong, none of those things are true. You’re gonna get out of this place, you’re gonna find somewhere worthwhile, and it’s gonna be okay, alright?”

Cas shakes his head, so Dean holds it in place, “How would you know?”

“I just, I just fuckin’ know, alright?” Dean snaps, holding Cas closer, and apparently that’s the ticket.

Cas unwinds his fingers and holds Dean back, getting snot and tears all over him. Seems to be a running motif with them. It could be worse.

“Dean,” he murmurs against Dean’s ear, soft as anything, “I’m sorry.”

“Asshole, for what?”

“I didn’t mean to- to do this,” his breaths are still a little shaky, but they’re evening out, “It’s just that- so often I feel… like I’m a punchline to an intensely unfunny joke. And you don’t make me feel like that.”

There's a room. In that room lies a table. On that table is a vase of flowers, but there isn't enough water to keep the flowers alive. What colours are the flowers? Are they blue? Are they yellow? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. It’s like remembering a word that was on the tip of his tongue since- he can’t remember.

“So, I don’t want to- well, complicate things. I apologise for my actions, I hope you can forgive me.”

And just like that, all the vases are smashed. All the flowers are grey. All the flowers are dead.

Dean rubs Cas’s back, “Nothing to forgive, dude.”

Cas smiles and sighs, so it makes Dean feel brave. Stupid, but brave. “Y’know, sometimes I- I feel wrong too. Like, there’s no ground beneath me and everyone else got the sidewalk,” Cas just nods, all slow-like, like he understands (he does understand, obviously), “and- and it’s okay, that you feel like that sometimes. Just know that- that I- ” love you, just say it, just fucking say it, just fucking- “I’m here for you, man.” **Fuck.**

Cas pulls back, the blanket draping. “And I, you, Dean. Of course.”

Dean smiles and ruffles Cas’s hair, like it’s nothing, like his heart hasn’t been stuck on a spike and roasted, medium rare, “Plus, the only time you’re a joke is when you go out with your hair looking like a home to a bird or two,” he grins, empty, and Cas pushes at his shoulder, rolling his eyes like it’s all normal.

They make their way back to the house and Dean takes on the couch (“seriously, dude, you’re gonna thank me come morning”) while Cas takes Dean’s bed with a frown, like they could sleep together.

Dean doesn’t know if he’ll be able to even touch Cas again without processing this shit first.

Cas. Obviously. Hits-like-a-fuckin’-train obviously.

Dean wipes his hands over his face and tries so hard to just forget he ever acknowledged that twist in his gut whenever Cas isn’t around, the little swoop his heart does when Cas smiles, laughs, scowls, chews with his mouth open.

For once, Dean can’t sleep.

He literally watches the ceiling until the sun comes up, and that’s the point where he decides to make good on his brunch offer, except racketing it up to ninety.

Sam grumbles on down a few hours later to the smell of fresh fruit, eggs, bacon, waffles, pancakes, french toast and probably Dean’s back-sweat.

“What the hell, Dean?” he yawns, “You didn’t have to do this, what’s the occasion?”

“Multiple hangovers under the same roof,” Sam wrinkles his nose, “Cas. He’s had a foray into the world of Bud Lights. Go wake ‘im, would ya?”

Sam ‘ugh’s for every step on the stairs, but Dean can hear how gently he wakes Cas up, the fun-sized softie. Moments later, they’re both coming down, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

Cas notices and looks down, “Sorry, I got cold last night,” he waves at himself, Dean’s flannel pyjamas hiked up high around his waist, Dean’s AC/DC shirt crumpled over his own shirt. It’s enough to make a grown man cry, and a young adult try not to pop a boner in sleep pants, “You don’t mind, do you? I should’ve asked first- ”

“No! No, you’re- you’re fine,” he waves it off, almost bumping the pan-handle off the hob, a hip-wiggle away from painting the kitchen floor with omelette. He clears his throat when even Sam peers at him like he’s dropped all his marbles, “Look, um, lookin’ good- okay.”

Sam wrinkles his nose, “Dean, what are you- ”

“Who wants pancakes? Raise your hands.” Dean nips _that_ in the bud, because yeah, he’s acting weird, but he doesn’t need _Cas_ to know that, jeez, Sam.

They both raise their hands, and Cas looks appeased, if a little nauseous, but Sam’s still deducing. Dean can practically see the cogs whirring.

“I am sensing… some discomfort,” Cas interjects around mouthful of, oh god, _strawberries_ , get it together Dean, fuck shit fuck, “is it alright that I’m here?”  
  
Dean blushes up a storm, and of course Sam catches that, and Dean’s ready to blow up a few more chunks that didn’t quite evacuate yesterday, “‘Course, dude,” unsteady nonchalance, to the rescue, as Dean turns back to his omelette, “can’t just turf you out, s’irresponsible, if anything.”

Cas ‘hmm’s and gets back to stuffing his face, and Dean turns back to see the smuggest look he’s ever seen Sam make. Like, Dean didn’t know facial expressions on fourteen-year-old’s could even do that. “Irresponsible, huh?”

“Yeah, _Sammy_ ,” Dean grits out, non-threateningly (read: _totally_ threateningly) waving his spatula about, “y’know me. Mister Responsible.”

Sam fucking raises his eyebrows with an unspoken ‘yikes’ and Dean’s ready to throw himself out the window. Cas doesn’t even pay mind, moaning deep around his chewing (great, fucking great fantastic _awesome_ ).

They all somehow get through the meal with little-to-no-hassle, Cas and Sammy devouring most of the food like locusts. After a while, Sam goes upstairs to give birth to his food baby, and Cas stays downstairs with Dean, cleaning up and picking at leftovers.

Dean can’t even look at Cas, because what if, in that clearer, well-fed mind, he’s realised how Dean feels about him? Is he gonna assume Dean’s a fuckin’ asshole, that he took unfair advantage? Is he not gonna wanna be friends, is that why he’s so fuckin’ _quiet_?! The suspense is killing Dean, so he just lays himself out to the lions.

“Sorry about last night, dude, I was beyond tired, and hungover so- so, like, sorry for bein’ an asshole.”

He claps Cas on the back for good measure, but Cas just squints at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Last night? The long grass? You, me- ”

Cas physically recoils at that. Well alright then, fuck. “We didn’t- did we?” He makes it sounds like it’s (like Dean’s) disgusting. Awesome, fantastic, fucking great.

Dean’s voice flattens, “Nah, man.”

Cas let’s out a sigh of relief, “Oh good,” and then he smiles. Smiley McSmilerson. “I wouldn’t want to, erm, make things uncomfortable between us.”

And that’s when it hits him. “You don’t remember.”

Cas blushes, “I’m afraid not, no. I don’t even recall how I got here, to be honest.”

“You biked.”

Cas smiles, shy, nervous, “Dean, I hope I didn’t say or do anything inappropriate- ”

“Like I said, dude, it’s cool,” but of course Dean has to make it sound like it’s anything but, almost smashing the plates into the sink.

Cas frowns at Dean, “Dean- ”

“All good, man- ”

“ _Dean_.”

It’s urgent, it’s everything Dean loves (loves, what an asshole, what a goddamn riot) about Cas, intense and present, like he’s got thunder in his chest. “Cas?” He asks, asshole mouth of his, flinging a dirty rag over his shoulder.

Instead, Cas walks up to Dean, and they’re not even touching, but it feels… intimate, electric. “Dean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You are a dear friend, and one of the best people I know. I would- ” he looks down to his hands, “I’m afraid of myself without you.”

“Oh.”

“So thank you, for brunch, for taking care of me. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Okay, Cas, jeez,” he clips him ‘round the shoulder, but Dean swears his heart grows three sizes in that moment.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s over at Barry’s for some project or another, he’s dropped Cas off at home, and now- now he’s just waiting for Mary to come home. Cas- he’s always made things clearer, and now he’s made it clear that Benny wasn’t just a one-off. That he’s felt excited about guys before, the same way he gets excited about girls (maybe even more, but he doesn’t wanna address that _quite_ yet). His… feelings for Cas are overwhelming. He can’t concentrate, he can’t talk about it, and he doesn’t know what a lot of it means. It’s all fine in theory but the pamphlets don’t cover how it feels in reality, this barrier that needs to come the fuck down (out, whatever, semantics).

Dean needs his Mom right now.

So he waits and waits, too nervous to even turn on the TV, to read, to type, to jerk off. He’s got nothing except fear on his side, so by the time the familiar scrape of keys comes about, he almost jumps right out of his chair.

“Dean, sweetheart?” she says, like she’s forgotten they’re meant to be angry at each other. For some reason. He forgets momentarily too, as he strides towards her and gathers her up into a huge hug. “Dean,” she breathes, only to hug him back more tightly.

He pulls back after a little while, wiping his nose, because no, he was not- he _was not crying shut up._ Mary sniffs too, so clearly she was not-crying either.

Her eyes are watery, and she makes that face of ‘I missed you’. They sit and… don’t say anything. Great.

“Look, Mom- ”

“Dean, honey- ”

Typical. Two peas in a pod. He waves for her to go.

“I’ve been- I’ve been very hard on you the last few weeks. Especially that night, I,” she looks down, stretches the cuff of her sleeve a little, back and forth, relaxing, “I should never have compared you to him.” She looks up at him, eyes bright and determined. “You are nothing like him. He would be,” she strokes the sides of his face, hands stinking of anti-bacterial, “proud, no, _lucky_ , to see the man you’ve become today.”

Something twists in his stomach like a knife. Maybe not so much.

“And, as for school, I’ve talked to Principal Devereaux and he said you’ve still got time to apply to Stanford, complete the application and you’d probably walk in, they’d love you, sweetheart, I know they would and- ”

“Mom, I’m bisexual.” Oh. Okay. He didn’t expect it to sound so abrupt but. Fuck.

Mary pauses like she’s glutting, before cocking her head up, just slightly, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Bisexual. I like- I like girls and guys in the, whew this is hard, in the same kinda way?” It comes out a question because now that he’s looking right at her face like he should be questioning this. It’s not fair. He only just found the sidewalk.

She makes a face of pity and that’s the last thing he needs right now. “Honey, are you sure?”

“Y-Yeah, Mom, of course, what- what kind of question is that?”

“Okay, don’t get angry at me, I was just wondering- ”

“Yeah, well you can quit wondering. I’m bi, deal with it.” He leans back in his chair, sighing, rolling his eyes, and he’s impatient. He’s impatient. It shouldn’t’ve been like this. They should be hugging and crying and telling each other they love each other, that she doesn’t care who he loves, because she loves him, but it’s not always like it is on youtube, unfortunately.

“I’m not,” she straightens her back, and maybe they’re too alike, “Stop getting defensive, Dean, I don’t know enough about this kind of… of stuff.”

“I’m not getting defensive!” he shouts.

“Yes, you are!” she shouts back.

“This is why I can’t talk to you, fuck!” He gets up, the chair scraping painfully on the tile. Mary goes to reach after him, but his voice comes out rough, “Just- stop, just stop, Mom. Leave me alone.”

He’s never been _that kid_ , stroppy and angsty and angry all the time. Seems it just built up for now where it’s no longer acceptable. He cranks up his music and writes until he can’t feel his fingers anymore.

 

* * *

 

Cafeteria food is probably the worst thing ever concocted, especially when Dean gorged on whatever was left over from the scraps of his Sunday brunch/masterpiece.

Anna’s playing with her food and avoiding eye contact with Dean (shit, they need to talk about _that_ ) and Charlie won’t even acknowledge Hannah’s existence, and the worst thing? Everyone can fucking tell.

“Dean, can you ask Hannah if she’s gonna finish her water?” Charlie asks, like that’s a normal thing.

Hannah scowls at Charlie, not even looking at Dean, “Dean, could you tell Charlie I'm obviously going to finish my water, and she wanted some she should've gotten her own?"

“Dean- !”

“Look, guys, as much as I love re-enacting uncomfortable family dinner scenes Sam Mendes probably has wet dreams about, could you fuckin’ _not_?” He nudges Cas, “Cas, you’re with me, right?”

“Huh?” Cas says, still leaning on his arm and staring into space, like he has been doing for the last 15 minutes (he didn’t… okay, yeah, Dean counted).

Dean follows Cas’s eye-line to-

“Michael Cohen? Really, Cas? Your first crush and you’re going for the cliché? Laaame,” Charlie comments before launching back into her mashed potato.

Cas looks ready to murder Charlie, “Keep your voice down,” he hisses.

Hannah turns to Anna since Charlie’s not picking up, “Who’s Michael Cohen?”

Anna puts on her teen comedy trailer voice immediately, “Only _the_ hottest guy in school! He’s captain of the football team, lead in the school play, head of the debate team, _and_ I hear he got a modelling contract in Vermont, but he turned it down to focus on his studies.”

“So he’s an asshole,” Dean chews, because he has eyes, he can see the lovestruck look on Cas’s face. And yeah, Dean has eyes to see that Michael Cohen is, indeed, a fucking Adonis made flesh or whatever. Asshole. “Also most likely to kick your ass if you asked him out, Cas, it’s not worth it.”

Cas just rolls his eyes, “Thank you, as ever, for your undying support, Dean,” he barely contains a goddamn _wistful sigh_ (who does those anymore?!), “but I think I’ll fawn over him from afar.”

“Yeah, bet you want him to fawn over you too,” Charlie sniggers, “Fawn _all over your face._ ”

Cas bursts out with a shocked laugh and chucks his peas at her, a few getting tangled in her hair.

Dean looks back over at Michael, and he does notice he’s got some pretty nice arms.

 

* * *

 

On a completely unrelated note, Dean starts working out. Every day. Without fail.

He warms up with exercises his dad really shouldn’t’ve been teaching him at seven years old, but apparently you were never too young to learn how to do a proper crunch. He’d follow it up with a 2k run around the farm, which damn-near killed him the first couple of weeks, but starts to get a little bit easier after that.

Anytime he loses motivation, he brings to mind Cas’s face looking at Michael “Smarmy Prick” Cohen. That always picks him right back up.

By the end of the month, he feels a little bit better. Like he could lift his bones without feeling like he’s gonna fall as soon as he tries.

And, considering how hard he’s worked, pulling it all together (even Mary commented, but they were still ~off, so he offered nothing more than a tight smile) even though there were days he wasn’t sure he could even get up, he decided he’d fucking _earned_ a greasy burger at the Roadhouse.

He goes by himself (because he’s an independent Winchester, hell yeah) to see Jo looking- well, he doesn’t even wanna think ‘forlorn’ because he values the current state of his genitals, not being castrated and all, but that’s all he can think.

“Hey, Dean-o, you friendless today?” she tries, but even her voice is monotone, which is so un-Jo, it’s unnerving.

He shrugs, “My usual, Harvelle.”

“Pacific salad?” she scribbles.

“No, my old usual,” he nudges with a wink.

“Nice,” she smiles a little as she crosses it out, but she’s still practically drooping (thank fuck for internal monologues).

As she walks away, he tugs at her wrist, “Hey.”

She turns back, “What, Dean?”

“What’s wrong, dude?”

She bites her lip, same way she does when she’s trying not to do the whole crying thing. “Kev and I broke up, for your information,” she tucks her pad into her apron, eyelashes wet, “don’t tell anyone, okay? I don’t think I could deal with the gloating.”

“Jo- ”

“Comin’ right up, Dean,” she walks off without a word. Dean doesn’t know whether to be elated for Anna or sad for Jo. All he really knows is: he needs to get the gang back together.


	14. it is the east! and apologising isn’t fun!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi all! sorry about last week, but at least this week's a real whopper (4,016 words ohmy gos hh it's just like "on the head of a pin" ohmy shojjjdjd) ANYWAY hopefully this shall suffice my terrible absence. now, onto warnings! parent death mention and childhood trauma all tied up into a sad-looking bow. if you want to know more about the triggering content so you can skip it just message me at celestialblasphemy on tumblr!

Dean can feel his muscles twist and burn with every step he takes, and it’s nice. He’s fully aware how weird it is that it feels nice, but he can keep his mind off everything for a moment when everything’s a little strained and a little- oh wait, nope, never mind, cramp, oh god motherfuckin’-

He’s a little while’s out from the house, so he limps back, feeling more than a little pathetic when he walks past Sam raiding the juice. Dean collapses at the island and catches his breath.

“Dean?” he rubs his eyes, checking the clock, “Am I hallucinating or are you up at six thirty?”

“Hallucinating,” Dean deadpans as he stretches out his arms, “you finally wore me down with that whole running BS.”

Sam lights up, “Can we go together sometime?”

Dean softens at that, because damn, when was the last time he and Sammy did anything fun, just the two of ‘em? “Sure, Sam.”

Sam beams, right up until Dean snags his juice and hobbles impressively fast back to his room, “You’re such a freakin’ jerk!” he shouts after him, “And don’t use up all the hot water!”

 

* * *

 

Of course, Dean still feels the cramp later and he’s huffing and puffing his way through History, to the point where even Missouri is looking at him strangely. Cas peers at him and once the bell rings, Dean’s taking about ten minutes to actually get out of his seat.

“Are you all right, Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas, just uh…” and this is where the embarrassment sets in. Because everyone that’s anyone knows Dean is not exactly a pinnacle of physical health. He’s a chunky guy, and that ain’t a bad thing, but these last few weeks have been hard on his love handles. They’ve almost melted away, and Dean’s finding that he kinda misses having a little somethin’ extra. Admitting that he’s been working out might sound too much like defeat.

“Just uh, what, nerds?” Charlie butts in/inadvertently rescues. “Hurry up, we’re missing the nice tator tots, you wanna get left with the deformed ones that never got to tell William Shatner how much they loved him?”

Dean scoffs and manages to get up whilst hiding his leg’s complaints. Cas still looks at him with that intense ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look, but lunch can do its job and distract them all for a bit. As long as Dean doesn’t have to act as translator.

 

* * *

 

“Dean, can I ask you a personal question?”

Cas looks so freakin’ intent now that school’s over and Dean’s got no-where to run. Although, case in point, that’s what got him in this situation in the first place.

“‘Course, dude, what’s up?” he grins. The leg’s doing better, but leaning against the impala is better than putting all his weight on his knees right now. Plus, it ups the casual look, which is always a good thing.

“Have you been, um, well? Recently?”

“Yeah, man, why?”

“Well… I mean. You look like you’ve been. Um. Working out?” He ends it like a question, and Dean’s blushing, oh god, this is terrible. “And I’ve been looking to bulk up myself, so- so what I’m asking is…” he takes a deep breath, “would you mind if I joined you?”

Cas looks like he’s about to pass out from a goddamn hernia he’s so tense, and Dean’s a little shocked. But it’s really a no-brainer; hanging out with his best friend, getting ripped, _sweat_? (There are _scenarios_ hidden in sweat, sweat has a lot of potential).

“Obviously not, let’s do this! I work out most days at like six-ish?”

Cas cocks his head, “In the evening?”

Dean grimaces, “AM, bud.”

Cas’s eyes widen, because he knows that Dean knows what he’s like sans-coffee pre-school hours. “I see.”

“Still up for it?” Dean jokes, but honestly nothing would make him happier.

“I’ll see you at 5:45, Dean. Bright and early.” Cas turns on his heel and leaves Dean to his growing list of ‘scenarios’.

This is the best idea he’s had in forever.

 

* * *

 

This is **the worst idea he’s had in forever**. Cas is there, bright and early, like he said, which is fine. And Dean’s ready, he’s totally ready, even a little pumped. His leg’s feeling great after a session sticking it in between the washing machine and the dryer while they were on (although Sam thought he was jerking off for a good while, which, like. He has. Just not then). He’s even excited to run, which is kinda new, he’s been mostly driven by pure jealousy and gumption up to this point, but with Cas it’s gonna be fun. He’ll be able to shoot the shit and show off his stamina and wow, real classy, Winchester, stop that.

Cas turns up in loose sweaters (yep, still plural) and waves at Dean from the bull-rushes.

“Nice of you to turn up with a bike that’s yours,” Dean smirks, and Cas rewards him by shoving him in the shoulder (he’s been hanging out with Charlie way too much).

“Okay, so my usual route is 1km up and then turning back around the barn and back, but since you wanna pump some iron,” he attempts his best Schwarzenegger impression, “we can cycle back to a special surprise.”

“Quite a schedule you have planned,” Cas smirks, then he takes off his sweaters. This is where the worst idea thing comes in).

Dean can’t fucking look away from the planes of tanned skin (and how the hell did _that_ happen when the guy barely gets enough sunshine to keep a succulent alive?) when Cas is left standing there, in the chilly light of the sunrise, in shorts and a sports bra. Dean’s gonna fucking die once they start running. He looks so… fucking compact. This is unfair, the universe and every moment that has led up to this one is a gigantic cosmic _joke_.

“Dean?” Cas probes, awkwardly waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. At some point he might’ve even resorted to finger-snapping.

“YES, yes?” Oh fuck, oh jeez, oh shit.

“Are we- is the running still happening?” Cas squints, looking down to his running shoes like they’re the problem.

Dean straightens up (well not like that but y’know) and straps up his water bottle. “Obviously, heh.”

Even the way Cas runs renders Dean speechless. Fuck, he could write sonnet about the way Cas’s muscles move, the skin slightly roughened by scabs and scar tissue. Those weird bruises people get on their legs for no reason. This whole ‘being in love with Cas’ is a real pain in the ass.

They circle back after the barn, but Dean breathlessly indicates to go to the ‘special surprise’ portion of the run.

“Oh my goodness,” Cas breathes, “did you build all this?”

He’s referring to the pretty awesome circuit course on a bit of levelled ground just a little to the left of the barn. It’s got weights in different classes, monkey bars, the works. Everything Stallone would need for a stellar training montage. And it’s all their’s.

“I reworked it. Cleaned it up a bit. Whaddya think?”

Cas walks over, thoughtful look on his face before clasping Dean’s shoulder with a smile. “I think it is, as a very good friend of mine would say, awesome.”

Dean can feel himself beaming ear to ear, soaking in the hand on his shoulder. Cas pulls away a little too soon, but it’s okay to watch him try things out. The monkey bars seem to be his favourites, even through his mildly pathetic attempts at chin-ups.

They’re out there for twenty minutes before either of them says anything.

“Dean, who- I mean, did this place belong to someone else? Before?” Cas asks, torturously slow, like he’s scared of the answer.

“Yeah,” Dean answers just as slowly, “Why’d you ask?”

Cas doesn’t say anything for a bit, so Dean looks up from his weights and looks over at Cas, just sort of hanging from the monkey bars. “There’s an inscription. Right here.”

Dean gets up and looks over, even though he knows what’s there, carved into the first rung.

_John Winchester, E-5_

“Is that your father?” Cas prods gently because Dean’s not opening his mouth, not using his words, “He was a sergeant?”

“Marines,” he grunts.

“Hmm,” Cas drops down to Dean’s level again, and then he just sits on the sandy ground. “May I ask what- um. Was it in action?”

It’s hard, vocalising what happened to his hero of a dad. It’s hard, because in saying something it tarnishes the magic that much further. Dean becomes more of a villain the more his dad does, for still loving him, still looking up to him, still allowing him to be so fucking important to him, even when he’s ash on the mantlepiece.

“It’s a long story.” Dean croaks out.

Cas moves away a little, but placing a placating hand on Dean’s arm. “You don’t have to tell me, Dean, I’m sorry- ”

“Not even Charlie knows everything. It’s… company line is he got drunk and wrapped the car around some tree off the interstate. Didn’t hurt nobody, it was quick, he didn’t feel anything, blah blah.”

Cas seems frozen to his spot, like if he blinks Dean will stop talking, stop feeling safe enough with him to keep telling him one of the things that still keeps him up at night.

“I was around six, I think? Maybe seven. Mom was on call, still in training but working her way up. She knew Dad had a problem but, uh… it was her dream. So he looked after me and Sammy when she couldn’t. And that was fine, it was fine, Cas.”

He takes a longer breath because his sight’s getting a little blurry the more he talks. Probably hasn’t hydrated enough, right?

“He… war does things to you, man. It fucks you up. Even the training, it moulds you into someone else. Not someone bad, but someone different. It’s hard. It’s so hard for someone like my dad. He was real soft before he got into the army. Bright eyed, or whatever,” Cas is looking at him with growing worry, and this was not what he meant by sweaty scenarios, “He was… he was a good person, Cas, I need you to know that.”

“It’s okay, Dean, I know that,” Cas speaks so low that it’s a wonder Dean can even hear him, but he does, and it bursts that cage inside him that he’s been ignoring for the longest time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, because he can feel the tears coming hot and fast, and it’s weird because he’s feeling so red and raw and disgusting, but the dam’s broken, it has well and truly broken. “Sam was asleep, but I wanted to get some water, and I come- I come down, and I see my dad. He’s fallen over, and he’s- fuck- Cas, I can still smell it. He’d had a few too many and he’d fallen.”

Cas scoots closer, and it might be under his breath, but somehow Dean still hears that stuttered, familiar, “Oh my god-”

“And my mom, she came home at three in the morning to find her seven year old, covering in bile and vomit, crying and trying to wake his dad up because he wasn’t waking up, Cas. He wasn’t waking up, and I couldn’t- I was asleep and I didn’t do anything, fuck- ”

His throat feels so fucking sore, he feels like his back was going to break, and the place stinks of vomit (again) like death (again) like shit and sweat and alcohol (again) and his heart rate is too high-

And Cas just fucking holds him, clutches him tight and doesn’t let go.

Dean clutches back. Cas breathes and soothes in his ear, raking short, sweaty fingers through Dean’s hair, not letting him go.

They stay there for so long that they’re late for first period. Neither of them mind. If Cas gives Dean worried and affectionate looks for the rest of the day, Dean tries not to let on how much that means.

 

* * *

 

Ellen invites Dean and Sam over to their’s for dinner, Jo complaining that she waitresses enough for her job that the damn Winchesters can help out too.

It’s nice, getting out of the usual running/school/work routine; he’s been going through the motions and the Harvelles are a welcome regime shake-up.

“Asshole, you’re blocking my view!” Jo grouses as Dean moves in front of her, shaking said ass to prolong his movement.

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen rings out, bored from repetition, “language.”

“They’re basically furniture, ma, especially Dean-o.”

“Stop calling me Dean-o, Joanna Beth!”

She threatens to pull his lovely green eyes out of his skull before Sam enters as peacemaker and changes the channel to robot trucks.

“Appeasement is the refuge of the coward,” Dean grumbles.

“Well, this coward’s gonna get some pie, anyone want anything?”  
  
Ellen beams at him, already dropping off from the couple of beers, “Now, why couldn’t I have had a daughter like you, huh, Sammy?”

“The sad twists of fate, Ellen.”

She chuckles and he goes back into the kitchen. The blare of the television paired with Ellen’s snoring is strangely peaceful, which is probably why he doesn’t automatically notice Jo sniffling and trying to hide it.

“Hey, you okay?”

Jo looks straight ahead, classic anti-crying tactic, and shakes her head. She smells a little like bacon grease and teen angst, a smell Dean knows all too well.

“I just- I miss everyone, y’know? I miss hanging out with everyone, even Cas,” she wipes her nose on her sleeve, “I feel like, when I dated Kevin, everyone stopped wanting to hang out with me. Like I was no longer interesting because I was with a guy.”

“Wait, why would that be a thing?” Dean wonders, more out loud than anything.

Jo looks like she’s gonna split open, “I don’t know, it’s not like- like I’m not curious or anything, fuck, I’m a hormonal teenage girl surrounded by other hot hormonal teenage girls, of course I’m curious!”

That’s- that seems off-topic, considering the subject matter, right? “What’s this even about, Jo?”

“I don’t know, man, I was worried going out with a nice guy like Kevin was making too vanilla.”

“Are you kidding?” Kevin’s sweet, but it’s not like any of them are exactly exciting people. The last time he went out anywhere was to Cas’s to play a pretty brutal game of monopoly with Charlie, “Please tell me this is you kidding right now.”

“Kevin was nice, but like… man, he was really boring in bed.”

TMI, oh god, TMI. “Woah, okay, don’t really wanna know my baby sister’s sex habits, thanks.”

Her face scrunches up in that ‘this is not the time Dean’ way, “I’m the same age as you, jackass.”

“Beside the point, but go on,”

“Ugh, I just miss my friends, Dean!” The crying’s stopped and she’s just angry, ready for a good old rampage somewhere she can flatten something, “I miss Charlie and Hannah and you and Cas and- and _Anna_ , fuck… she hates my stupid guts, doesn’t she?”

Dean nearly breaks his face not laughing at that, “Uh, no, she does not hate you. Like at all. But people are just… being assholes right now. I think it’s in the water.”

Jo sinks back into the couch further, smushing her hair into her face. “What do I do?”

Dean’s never really been one for scheming, but now might be the time to pick it up. “Leave it to me, dude. You’ll be snarking at Charlie and making eyes at Anna in no time.”

“M-making, eyes, what?”

“Nothing,” he smirks, and she punches him in the shoulder (is there a sign tacked on there or something?!).

 

* * *

 

And scheming shall be so; Dean sends a text to everyone to meet him at the diner for a serious emergency. He even uses various emojis, it’s very dramatic.

He texts Cas with his plan and Cas just sends a string of bees and flowers followed by aliens. He. He doesn’t even wanna ask, to be honest.

Cas arrives first, like Dean’s strategy is the most interesting thing to happen in the last week.

“So, when are they arriving?”

“Ten, when Jo’s shift ends,” Dean shifts uncomfortably. The main conflict is between Jo and Anna, but he knows they love each other, so he knows this whole thing is a matter of pride. He hopes they can suck it up long enough to actually be happy again.

“This is very devious, Dean,” but he’s smiling, all-gums, nonetheless.

“Is it so devious to want my friends speaking to each other instead of doing their best impersonations of water fountains constantly?” Dean’s close to snapping, but Cas just pats his back. It’s worrying how easily Cas can make Dean feel completely at ease.

“You know what they say about the road to hell,” Cas muses as another waiter brings out his water. He sucks loudly.

Dean waves him off, “Yeah, yeah, but this is frickin’ fool-proof.”

But of course he _had_ to say that just as Jo comes out of the kitchen half an hour too early.

“Indeed,” Cas drawls, and Dean’s out of his seat before Jo can even make it past Mal at the bar, just before the door.

“H-hey! HEY, Jo! Whatcha doin’ here?” He slides just in front of her to block the door, even though once he turns back he can see her ‘ready to murder’ face on.

“It’s… my shift? What are you doing, Dean?”

“Just catching a bite, you wanna come join us?”

Jo growls, right at the back of her throat, “No, Dean, I wanna sleep, I’ve been on my feet for like, four hours because Ash is short for Ash-hole.”

“Ha! That’s a good one, gosh you do crack me up Joanna Beth!”

Jo examines him as he sweats a mile down his back, “What- are you okay, Dean?”

“Just wonderin’ if my best gal wanted to sit and chat for a while- Cas!” he blurts.

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow, “Cas?”

“Cas is here!”

Jo looks over at him and without breaking stride: “That’s nice, you two on a date, finally?”

“I- w _hat.”_

He gapes just in time to see Charlie and Anna walk through the doors. They all look at Dean, who’s currently trying not to pass out from the simultaneous death stares, and he looks to Cas.

Cas waves from their booth. “Hello, everyone!”

Everyone looks at everyone, and it’s damn awkward being stuck between the seats at the bar and the booths by the door. Jo looks to the floor, her face red, and Charlie seems to be following the track of a house fly. Anna scoffs and just turns to leave until Jo reaches out and grabs her hand.

“Wait.”

Anna looks down at her hand, and Jo holds her gaze. It’s all over when Anna’s lip wobbles and she brings Jo in for a long, crushing hug. Charlie smiles fondly and smacks Dean hard on the back.

“Fuck!”

“Ya done good, kid. Ya done real good,” she murmurs before she guides them all to their booth.

They spend the rest of the evening laughing and talking and ordering the weirder milkshakes on the menu (peanut butter raspberry has become a favourite). Dean looks over to Cas, who just gives him a hearty thumbs up before continuing his in-depth conversation about D&D alignments of some weird comedy shows Dean’s never heard of with Anna.

He looks at his little make-shift family and feels content for the first time in a long while.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s got a certain skip in his step the next couple of days. Incorporating the weight stuff has been kinda taxing, but Cas has been unnaturally encouraging and even a little pushy.

“No, don’t drop it Dean- _Dean_ , come on, don’t give up now, three, two, one, okay…”

Dean’s arms burn in a really good way and so when they’re walking back to the house (scenic route because it’s a Saturday), he gets comfortable, watching Cas commune with nature. Kind of.

“What are you even doing, dude?” He laughs as he watches Cas approach a small thatch of random flowers and just… sitting in front of them like they’re at the frickin’ Louvre. “They’re just weeds.”

Cas just hums and nods at them, gently tracing his fingers along the petals. He looks beyond serene.

“Dean, can I ask you a question?”

“If it’s to ask me to work out, I hate to be the bringer of bad news, Cas,” Dean grins, and Cas’s eyes soften. He finally looks up, chewing his lip.

“Not quite. There’s- I’m hoping that there’s something you could help me with,” he rises to his feet, stretching out probably, like, more than necessary. Dean gets maybe slightly lost watching a bead of sweat roll down Cas’s neck. Does he want to lick it off? Also maybe slightly. But walking back with a hard-on is not ideal so he mentally slaps himself out of it.

“A yes would be nice sometime soon,” Cas sighs.

Dean grumbles, turning his face to hide his red face (they’ve just be working out, god!), “Have to know what I’m helpin’ out with, first.”

And then the immortal words: “I think I, erm, like someone.”

Dean’s heart nearly thumps out of his chest, and for one glorious moment, recalling a strategically-placed kiss one early morning, he thinks Cas is gonna- that he does too. Maybe. Fuck, when did Dean’s life turn into a romcom?

He turns all suave, but not like, too suave, he doesn’t wanna come off cocky, fuck, focus Winchester, _focus_. “So, who’s the lucky cephalopod?” Awesome, why don’t you just give him a wedgie and call it a day, genius?

But it makes Cas laugh and blush so violently, Dean lets himself entertain the wild thought that he might actually be fucking _right_.

“Not quite a cephalopod, but he seems just as unattainable,” Cas claws a hand through his scalp, his hair scraped back off the patchy ruddiness of his cheeks. “Do, you, uh, do you know Michael? Michael Cohen? I think he has Biology with us.”

Dean wishes he had google in his brain right now: ‘ _is it medically possible for your heart to literally fall out of your ass?’_

“Cohen? That bonehead?” He almost (almost) squawks. “But he’s! Dude, you can dude so much better, I mean seriously.”

Cas gives him that ‘oh please’ look he’s perfected in the last couple of months. “Dean, I’m a gay transgender boy living in Lawrence and I wear more knitwear than yaks in the Yukon. I’m hardly ‘a catch’ among the teen population at our school.”

Dean almost breaks his teeth he’s gritting them so hard. “If those jackasses can’t see how awesome you are, they don’t fucking deserve you.”

Even Cas is kinda taken back by that unnecessary show of protectiveness, so: “But if you wanna go out with the smarmy ass, I’ll help you out with whatever you need, man.”

Cas lets out a breath, like this was terrifying for him, and Dean tugs Cas in for a quick squeeze.

Dean pulls away to find Cas holding his nose, “Well, at least we’re equally smelly, now.”

“Race you for the first shower?” Dean smirks, gathering the rest of their stuff.

Cas stands tall over Dean, eyes twinkling, “Do you like to lose so easily, Dean?”

They sprint all the way back, and Dean tries not to get all fucking introspective about any of this. Cas doesn’t like him like that, but he’s one the best people Dean knows, and there is not a snowball’s chance in fiery hell that’ll make Dean jeopardise that. Unless it’s a way to get him a goddamn shower before this guy uses up the hot water.

“Hurry it up, asshat!”


	15. set teenage boy to 45 degrees and watch him roast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, sorry for the radio silence, but i am DONE with all my major work this semester, so hooray for that! this is more of a filler chapter, but the nEXT ONE is gonna be a doozy (at least I hope, gosh)

Dean knows it’s not rational to hate someone just because they’re not you in someone else’s eyes. But being rational isn’t exactly the kind of thing he would ever put on his college application, so it doesn’t apply here, either. Michael _Ass-Face_ Cohen struts around like he fucking owns the place, and Cas is getting sappier by the day, if that were possible.

**Monday, January 4th, just before lunch**

Cas remarks that Michael’s shoes are polished. Who polishes their shoes? _Douchebags_.

**Wednesday, January 6th, as they’re passing the time watching football practice**

Cas asks Dean how long Michael’s lived in Lawrence. Dean shrugs, says he doesn’t know (he does, Cohen’s lived here all his life, the jerk). Cas also shrugs in response and continues sucking his water bottle out of the curly straw Charlie got him at the Roadhouse.

**Saturday, January 9th, in the impala**

Cas wonders what Michael’s favourite colour is, wonders if it’s blue. Dean grips the steering wheel marginally tighter.

It’s torturous, and worse? Dean feels like a way bigger douchebag than Michael could ever be. At least Michael’s not daydreaming about making out with his best friend (unless he is, which would be heartbreaking for Cas, and Dean would end up punching the guy in the f _ace)-_

“God, Dean, where the fuck are you?” Charlie barks at twelve o’clock. He looks around him, and it looks like Charlie’s room, except it’s almost empty.

“Dude, what happened to the Bradcave?”

Charlie looks down with a huff, “Hospital bills aren’t cheap, Dean-o,” she laughs, humourless. She points at her eye, the faint scar still there. She was lucky she didn’t scrape the cornea. “This freakin’ thing alone cost like a gazillion grand, so like, I just pawned all the stuff I couldn’t buy again.”

There’s a lump in Dean’s throat, and it’s not the tapioca pudding that’s still cooling in his lap, “Charlie, fuck, why didn’t you tell me?”

“What, Mister ‘Can’t Even Tell Mary About Columbia Because She’s Gotta Put Two Geniuses Through College’?” Dean can’t even pretend to be offended, that’s some serious nail-on-head business right there. “Yeah, no, I definitely don’t need your help. That’d be like stealing candy from a toothless baby.”

“But, what about hacking? Surely there’s another way-”

“Dean! Can we just drop it?” she blurts, and she deflates a little before smiling, all hollow, “And don’t call me Shirley.”

He nods and feels around her significantly thinner video collection, but he can practically feel her flinch from across the room. “How about we go for a walk?”

She mock-gasps, of course, “A… walk? What’s that?”

“C’mon, smart-ass,” Dean grins, pulling her up off the bed.

They spend about two hours (maybe, time flies when you’re discussing star wars prequels) just wandering about aimlessly, before they get the fountain in the centre of town and Charlie plops herself down. She pats the space next to her (on contact: damp) and he sits, obedient.

“So, what dya wanna discuss first, Cas? Or Columbia?”

Dean’s ears prick up and his first instinct is to look around, as if his mom and/or Cas have spies marking him (it’s _possible_ at least), before shushing her in general. “Are you kidding, Charlie? What did I say last time, Cas isn’t even a topic of discussion unless we’re talking about Hannah!”

She has the friggin’ nerve to _shrug_ like this isn’t Dean-threatening at all. “You sure do spend a lot of time together.”

“He’s the only consistent guy friend I have, gimme a break!” Dean can’t help but get defensive. If anyone ever guessed that Dean was more than a one on the Kinsey scale, it would be Charlie.

“And it’s got nothing to do with you sleeping together?” She curves an eyebrow at him, and he can’t help but laugh. At her, not with. Sheesh.

“Charlie, Charlie, what the hell?” He finally gets his breath back, “We are not sleeping together, can’t two manly dudes be buds without everyone reading some Byron-ic bullshit into it?”

“And of course this has nothing to do with him being trans?”

Holy personal secrets, Batman. Dean tries to think when, at any point, he could’ve possibly slipped up and told Charlie, maybe he’s mentioned his dead-name? Or something? Dammit, Winchester, you colossal fuck-up.

“Wh-what, who told you that?” he manages. Nice, real nice, asshat.

“He did. God, Dean, you’re not his only friend,” “So is that why you’re not… y’know, doing anything about it?”

“What’s ‘it’ now?”

She does her weird blend of exasperated sigh and pity laugh, the exact one that Dean really hates. “That huge crush you have on him.”

“It’s not a crush,” and as soon as the words come out of his mouth, he knows they sound more forlorn than defensive. He stares at some remote crack in a wall, just near a pretty beaten-up VW Bug, wishing he could crawl into a dark space and never come out.

“Oh,” she murmurs, putting her hand on his shoulder “Oh, Dean- ”

It’s getting to be a little too much, “And you can stop right there. It’s never going to be anything, not if I can help it,” Dean can’t help but keep laughing through this, even if there’s not a single funny damn thing about it. “He likes Michael anyway, and to be honest, I’d rather have him as- as my friend, for the rest of my miserable life, than ruin it for… for what? Sex? I don’t need it to be happy.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah… you’re right,” he wipes his clammy hands on his thighs, “What I do know is that he’s it for me. And that… that I do need him to be happy. And that’s it. Now can we please change the channel onto something a little less sappy? Please?”

She springs for milkshakes at some fast-food truck (a terrible idea, no where near as good as the Roadhouse) and she tries to be subtle, but Dean can tell when Charlie’s holding him up by the scruff of his neck. She just doesn’t want him to drown in this. It’s a nice sentiment, but a little redundant.

 

* * *

 

He comes home to find his mom, weirdly enough. She’s leafing through some medical journal or whatever at the kitchen island, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. She looks tired but comfortable at least. He swoops over and lands a light kiss on her cheek before heading back upstairs.

“Heya honey, you have a nice time with Charlie?” she calls after him. He grunts in affirmation and lets her be. He should’ve known she was planning a two-pronged attack before Sammy knocked on his door and came in without Dean answering.

As usual, he’s lying on the bed, feeling miserable, especially after talking to Charlie, and Sam can’t take a damn hint. He finds the incomplete form for Stanford like a (very old) smoking gun, and picks it up just to confirm. He slams it down onto Dean’s desk and makes with the intimidation stance, even if he’s a toothpick.

“Dean, c’mon, Mom’s been beyond patient with you, time to scrub up and face the music,” he shakes Dean, voice laced with annoyance, “It’s not like Stanford’s a prison sentence, it’s your future!”

Dean pushes at Sam, almost pushing him over, “Back off, Sam, I’m just not in the mood.”

“When are you ever?” Sam smooths himself down, scoffing as he leaves. Always with the last words, that kid.

Dean rolls over, oddly apathetic despite knowing, in theory, that he was just a total dick to his little brother. But it’s not quite hitting him the way it usually would. And that seems troubling, so he calls the only person he actually feels like talking to right now.

“Cas?” he picks up immediately, like he could tell, “Could you come over?”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean is almost tempted to say something stupid, like how much Cas means to him.

Cas is there in record speed, almost like he flew all the way, and Dean can even hear the muffled gratefulness from Mary as Cas treads carefully up the stairs. Before he knows it, there’s a firm knock on the door.

“Come in,” Dean mumbles, even through he knows who it is. Cas appears, a goddamn vision in yellow, and sits at Dean’s desk.

He picks the same form up and looks through it slowly, “I assume this is the offending item?”

“I don’t wanna go halfway across the country for school, Cas. California’s not my scene, you and I both know it.”

Without even looking up, he asks so casually, “Does your mother? Or Sam?”

Dean grumbles because of course that’s such a reasonable question, Cas always seems so damn reasonable, it’s a pain in the reasonable ass. “No, and they’re not gonna until the acceptance letter from Columbia comes through, and then they just have to deal with it.”

Cas sucks in a breath, which, especially coming from Cas, is a damn bad sign. “Are you sure?”

“What happened to my favourite rebel?”

Cas doesn’t take well to flattery, but he smirks anyways, “I thought that was James Dean?”

“I prefer ‘em _with_ a cause than without,” Dean grins, “‘Sides, what gives? Aren’t you meant to be rooting for the better looking Winchester?”

“I am on whatever side is best for you,” Cas argues, diplomatic as ever. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, right,” Dean plays with the fabric of his duvet, worn thin after so many years, “I’m beginning to think there’s nothing that’s gonna be really good for me. Beginning to think that maybe I’m… I’m not cut out for any of this shit.”

Oh god, he’s not willing to let out the waterworks yet a-fucking-gain, but they’re certainly on the brink. Cas can see that too and it’s painful to try and pretend he’s a-okay all the time. It’s exhausting. Maybe another nap would help.

“Dean, I am hardly an authority on good life decisions. I am nothing less than the poster boy of avoidance. Whether that comes out as rebellion or poor grades or a vitamin D deficiency, that depends on who you ask. But I can say, regardless of perspective, that I am here for you, no matter what,” he’s a lot closer than he was at the start of his speech and Dean’s eyes are straining not to look down at his lips. Cas leans back and onto Dean’s desk instead, almost slipping and sending papers everywhere.

Dean brings him down to his level and hugs him, limbs flailing and awkward. “Thanks dude.”

It’s probably wishful thinking that convinces him that Cas relaxes against him.

 

* * *

 

They’re all at the diner, reunited at last amongst college applications and rushed post-Christmas/Hanukkah plans, and it seems like things are okay until someone (*cough* Anna a.k.a Brutus *cough cough*) brings up the worst conversation topic in the history of conversation topics.

“So, Deanie Baby, what’s happening with your birthday this year?” Anna asks, acting all nonchalant even though she’s high-fiving Charlie with her eyes (it’s possible, Dean’s seen it before).

Cas and Hannah both look at Dean with matching looks of confusion, which is just creepy as hell.

“When were you going to tell us, Dean?”

“I’m going to be straight with you have no idea what to get,” Hannah seconds.

“Why don’t you be straight somewhere else, then?” Charlie mutters into her shake, and Dean peers at her, hoping he was the only one who heard. Judging from Hannah’s face, significantly downtrodden, he wasn’t.

“ANYWAY it doesn’t matter,” Dean interrupts, clapping and rubbing his hands together, “as long as I have my family and the internet, I’m good.”

Everyone except Cas groans like this is a company line or something, but Cas continues to stare intently at Dean. Collars are being heated up, which is thankfully stalled by Jo bringing everyone their food.

“…and a veggie skillet for, um, Anna,” Jo rushes, not meeting Anna’s eye at all, not even for a nudge and a barb for how Anna always chooses the worst things on the menu. Anna looks up at her strangely, and Jo’s… oh fuck, she’s blushing up a storm, “Careful, it’s hot,” she mutters before she practically runs off.

“Oooh!” Dean and Charlie chant in unison and Anna punches them both in their shoulders. They don’t wanna get her hopes up, but Dean has a more selfish reason for buying into it a little more than he would i.e. getting everyone’s minds off his birthday plans.

“Assholes!” she squeaks, but she doesn’t stop grinning into her eggs and red peppers all evening.

 

* * *

 

Dean can’t fucking trust a single goddamn person, not even under his own roof.

It’s a couple of days before his birthday and he can tell Sammy’s scheming something or other, especially because Mom’s home too. He plays the innocent do-gooder during breakfast, helping with the pancakes, the dishes, even squeezing fresh lemon out for drizzling purposes (what? Can’t a dude like his cookery shows? The Barefoot Contessa is a genius with zest).

Something’s obviously afoot when he sends both him and Mary down to the basement to retrieve the sparkling water (because he suddenly had “a hankering for it”) because, wouldn’t ya know it, suddenly neither of them can get out.

“Sam?” Mary knocks on the door, “Sam, honey, I think the door’s jammed.”

Dean rolls his sleeves up and tries to bust it down. Despite his still-growing muscles, no dice. And it hurts, fuck. “Sam! Stop being a little dick!”

“Dean!”

“What, he is!”

The sound of evil conniving footsteps comes up to the door, but makes no other movements.

“Mom, Dean, neither of you are coming out until you sort this whole university stuff out,” he takes a deep breath, “Dean, tell Mom about Columbia.”

Mary turns to Dean, confusion clear in every line of her face, even in the dim light of the basement. “Columbia? Dean, hon, what is Sammy talking about?”

Dean looks back to the door and back at the corner of the basement where the bottles are stacked and heads there. He squats uncomfortably on the plastic and buries his face in his hands.

“I applied.”

Mary comes over, putting her hand on his shoulder, “Dean, it’s good that you’ve branched out, what are you- ”

“And I’m not applying to Stanford.”

It’s like a gunshot in the tight space.

“What?” she whispers, and even then it’s deafening.

“I’m not applying to Stanford, and I’m not applying for engineering. I don’t- I don’t want that anymore, that’s not what I wanna do… anymore,” he rushes almost all on one breath, and it’s like letting air out of an old, decrepit balloon.

They both sit there in silence for a while until Mary utters, “When were you going to tell me?”

Dean puffs his chest up a little, he can’t help it. “When the acceptance letter came through.”

Mary scoffs, “That’s my boy.”

“Mom, I’m sorry, I-”

“Dean, what- what are you sorry for?”

“Huh?”

“Why on earth are you, my smart, loving, capable son, sorry for taking control of your education? You think I would be happy with you just going along with what I said?” She breaths out harshly, “Do you think I want that life for you? Doing whatever because I expect it of you? Darling,” she tugs him close, tears already falling, “I could never do that to you…”

Dean grips her tighter, careful not to hurt her, but god it feels like the biggest weight has been lifted off his back, “All this time I- I didn’t wanna disappoint you.”

She pulls back, her face twisted into a frown, “Do you,” sniff, “know what I wanted to be when I was your age? A damn ice cream taster. I thought _that_ was a viable career path.”

“Well, I wanna be a writer, so that ain’t much more financially secure,” Dean chuckles. She wipes a tear off Dean’s cheek and hugs him again.

They stay down there for a bit longer, the reprieve from responsibility almost mystical. They end up talking for hours, about his friends, about people at the hospital, about his stories, the kind of things he wants to write. Dean checks his watch and realises it’s afternoon and jumps up.

“Fuck, we’ve wasted the whole day,” Dean groans, and Mary gives him a look but winces.

“Yeah, I’ve been needing to pee for twenty minutes. SAM!” she yells and they hear him scurry to the door, drenched in sweat.

“What the hell’ve you been up to, nerd?” Dean grins, because despite his distaste in Sammy’s methods, his meddling worked.

“Actually- ”

“SURPRISE!” Everyone suddenly explodes from the living room. The whole gang’s here, and even Ellen and Bobby, presumably so Mary’s not bored out of her mind.

“What the hell is this?” Dean breathes, looking around him at the streamers, balloons and various games strewn all over the place. There’s also a shit-ton of food, and _man_ it smells so fucking good after the mustiness of the basement the last few hours.

Charlie charges forward and hugs him, her party hat almost poking his eye out. “Sam told us about his scheme, and we thought, hey, since Dean doesn’t wanna celebrate his birthday, probably because his Mom’s on shift that day, and because he’s the most introverted weirdo ever, then he wouldn’t mind us celebrating an un-birthday and chilling with, and I quote, family and internet or whatever.”

She beams at him and everyone’s armed with those annoying party poppers and hats and smiles and kazoos that really grate on his ears whenever anyone plays them. Anna’s already fighting with Hannah over who gets to play Dance Dance Revolution 2 first, Jo’s getting ready to give birthday beats and Cas already has whipped cream on his nose.

It’s perfect.


	16. panty-(one) liners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey hey since i missed last week, i'm not gonna cheat y'all out, so here's two chapters this week! huzzah! i feel like oprah.

It’s a week after the un-birthday, which was actually pretty nice, surprisingly, although they’re still getting treacle out of the carpet (Charlie’s got great hand-eye co-ordination in theory but…) and Dean’s favourite Grateful Dead shirt’s gone missing.

The lighter atmosphere everywhere means that Dean can get back to writing without a layer of guilt  settling over his bedroom. Lighter atmosphere also means Cas can doodle on Dean’s bed while Dean pretends that he’s totally Fine With It even though he’s kinda sweating enough to grow a pseudo-Everglades under his shirt. But it’s okay. Cas is okay, he’s okay, they’re okay.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, dude?”

“What is it that you’re writing?”

Dean looks back at his work. He’s managed maybe four hundred words since Cas got here five hours ago and he’s done nothing except be quiet and occasionally strike up casual conversation. He’s been nothing but concentrating and un-intrusive. It’s absolute hell.

But Dean’s not sure he can show Cas his most ambitious work ever without some preamble. He tried with his mom in the basement during the pre-birthday fiasco. He’d framed it as a story about two guys, but they’re- they’re just friends and, um, they just, go on adventures together? It had only been the two of them, but Dean had barely convinced himself.

He scratches his head, plays the scatter-brained card, “Didn’t I already tell you that one time..?”

“You didn’t do a very good job of it,” jeez Cas, harsh much? “I believe it was something along the lines of Blade Runner but Harrison Ford is an android that wants to be real? It was a little confusing, to say the least.”

Dean leans forward. He runs his fingers through his hair, shoving the short bristles back and forth. He goes to turn around and suddenly Cas is right beside him, still standing and squinting at the screen.

Dean scrambles to cover the eighteenth chapter, “Spoilers, dude! This is way further along!”

“Oh,” Cas deadpans, “I thought it was simply explicit.”

Dean splutters until he sees the non-smile on that asshole’s face and elbows Cas lightly. He sighs and places his fingers over the keyboards but doesn’t press. “I guess… you could read it.”

Cas practically lights up (no no don’t notice that) and gently swipes the laptop from under Dean’s hands and it seems to glide onto his lap. His lap where his thighs have been thicker sTOP.

“You, uh, still keeping up with running?”

“Yes, it helps clear my thoughts in the morning,” Cas says, “it doesn’t seem to start on page one?”

“Oh, no, it’s um, it starts on thirty-six because, uh, my main character kinda changed up a little,” and now Dean’s remembering why he didn’t show this to Cas before. “Don’t um, read into it too much, okay?”

“I thought that was the point of writing, to be read?” Cas raises an eyebrow, “I’m starting to see why writing isn’t seen as a sensible career path if all writers are this insecure.”

Cas smiles at Dean, all gummy and sweet, “If I’m some pointless character in the background I won’t hold it against you, I do tend to revel in my wallflower status.”

Dean pffts at that, if Cas’s laser beam stare at any scene of injustice or questionable wardrobe is anything to go by, he’s revelling in exactly nothing. But Dean doesn’t say anything, just watches and sweats while Cas reads.

“The- the main character isn’t consistent until chapter four, okay?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“And, um, the mythology of the High Council needs to be set up more, but I’m just trying to finish the first draft for now.”

“Of course, Dean.”

He can’t help but blurt, “Denny isn’t based on anyone!”

Cas looks up, bored annoyance clearly the expression of the day, so Dean takes that as his cue to maybe wash his face or get a sandwich or take an acid bath so Cas doesn’t realise that Dean’s so fucking in love with him that he’s written himself into a character that’s pining just as much for a character that’s basically Cas. Except in his own world, Dean gets the guy. He has no idea what kind of world this is, but it’s probably one of the worse ones.

He opts for the face wash instead of the acid bath and comes back to Cas lying on his bed, holding his laptop in the freakin’ air- “Cas, what the fuck?!”

Cas just shushes him and waves him away.

“You’d better not break it.”

“My incentive to not to depends on how good this is and how much its author stays quiet,” he says quickly before shooing Dean away again.

Dean gets the picture and occupies himself with video games for the next couple hours. When Cas is done, however, he looks pale as a sheet. Oh shit. Dean doesn’t even get up because Cas is coming direct to the source.

“Dean.”

“Cas?”

“This is- I mean, I assumed you were talented, you would not waste your time in something not worthwhile unless you were, but this- Dean,” his eyes are burning right into Dean’s skull, or at least that’s what it feels like as he kneels beside Dean on the couch, never breaking eye contact, “this is beyond what I thought. It’s vivid, it’s gut-wrenching- I need to know what happens.”

Dean clears his throat, just managing to focus on something other than Cas’s hand on his arm. He’s so intense, Dean’s kind hard- _it’s kinda hard_ , the- the situation. Fuck. “That’s all up to whether I get off my ass and write it.”

Without another word, Cas grabs him and sits him in front of his computer, watching over his shoulder. “Uh, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t do this with you standing over me like this.”

Cas contemplates this then steps back. “My apologies.”

Dean smiles to himself, typing away as Cas resumes his sketching. He gets into his stride, simultaneously goaded on by Cas’s presence and forgetting he’s there, when Cas asks:

“Dean?”

He doesn’t stop typing. “Yeah, what is it?”

Cas takes a deep breath, like he’s calming himself down, “I would like to collaborate with you at some point, would- would you be all right with that?”

Dean stops, turning around in his chair, and this time he’s the one staring. “There’s nothing I’d like more, Cas.”

Cas nods thoughtfully and gets back to work. Dean lingers on the sight a little bit longer, realising that yeah, he could probably do this, just this, for the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

 

Both Dean and Cas should’ve seen this coming. Charlie and Jo aren’t exactly fashionistas, despite their own distinct styles, and Hannah’s clothes- let’s just say she dresses practically, which is admirable, especially in the superficial tropics of high school. But Anna, oh no, Anna’s an _artist_ , Anna once spent an entire summer studying all the fashion greats, and she never grew out of her _Emma_ phase, so meddling is practically in her blood. She squints at them as they laze at the fountain in the mall, and more sinisterly (try saying that five times upside down) at Cas.

“Cas, sweetie, your clothes are disgusting.”

Dean nearly pushes her into the fountain while Cas just shrugs. “What the hell, Anna, don’t be so damn rude!”

She shrugs, “I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the past few weeks- ”

“Weeks?!” Dean sputters.

“- And I’ve come to the conclusion that your clothes are some of the ugliest items I’ve ever seen on a human body at the same time.”

Cas nods, “Thank you for taking the time to note that.”

“You can thank me when we replace your entire wardrobe,” she beams. Oh shit.

Charlie and Jo are just sniggering from their seats and Hannah’s looking ready to start shit, same as Dean.

“Oh, Anna, I couldn’t possibly- ”

“Nonsense! What else am I gonna use this damn trust fund for if not to help the people I love the most? Myself? Pfft, boring,” she walks over and gets down on one knee, while Cas’s face starts to resemble a plum, “Castiel, Novak, would you accompany me to- ”

“Yes, yes, just get off the floor it’s unsanitary,” Cas argues, tugging her up from the floor. He sighs and looks at Dean.

“Want me to make this as painless as possible?”

“Just make sure she doesn’t make me wear anything too fancy.”

It turns out that that is an impossible promise to keep. Cas ends up in some adjunct store where he’s forced to try on so many multi-coloured suits it makes Dean feel like he’s on a boat ride and there’s not earthly way of knowing where the boat seems to be going and Anna’s showing no signs of slowing- seriously, Gene Wilder’s gonna pop up in a purple suit to match Cas any minute.

“Anna, while I deeply appreciate your effort here, perhaps we should, um, tone the colours down a little?” Cas asks, decked out in more ruffles than Dean can count, looking more uncomfortable than he did with that failed prom dress Chuck tried to give him.

She takes one look at him, then at Dean, for some reason, and takes him to the changing room. Except then, Anna calls for him.

“Dean, can you come in here? Cas needs help with something.”

Oh shit fuck mothershitting dicks on a platter no. “Yeah, sure, be there in a sec.”

He gets into the changing room hallway and spots Cas’s trench coat hung outside the third to his right and knocks first anyway, just in case. “You rang?”

A hand shoots out from the curtain and grabs Dean, yanking him into the _tight enclosed space_ with _Cas_ of all people, Cas who is _half naked_. Dean’s lucky if he doesn’t get an aneurysm by the end of the day. “The zipper is stuck, and I can’t keep it smooth enough to get out of it.”

Dean notes the weird shirt-thing Anna tugged onto him before (fluorescent yellow, more like fluorescent yell-NO) and smooths it tight against Cas’s side. He can feel the line of the sports bra, and that’s when Dean is beyond sure that Cas shivers. Fucking _shivers_ goddammit. Dean’s so surprised he pulls the thing down with ease, too much in fact, and suddenly Cas is somehow toppling onto Dean, fucking straddling him on the bench in the changing room of some douche-y pretentious suit shop half naked, was that part mentioned. HALF. NAKED.

But it’s, it’s okay, Cas just needs a sex- _sec_ to collect himself, and so what if he grinds down onto Dean’s growing erection as he gets off, folding his arms across his chest.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says primly, “I appreciate your help.”

Dean mm-hmms his way out of there and runs to the nearest bathroom to get some kind of relief.

They all reconvene and Cas has actually found some nice new shirts that haven’t already been worn and died in, so they decide to call it a day until Anna reels them both back in.

“I helped you guys, now you guys can help me pick out lingerie.”

Dean wonders if the nightmare will ever end, and Cas looks like he might be thinking the exact same thing, right up until they actually enter the boutique and see… well. It’s probably what heaven looks like.

Anna immediately greets the cashier girl and starts discussing sets while Dean nearly drools over the wares (heh, under-wares). Cas isn’t much better, and Dean finds him by the lacy ones with, like, a little bit of silk and they’re so… he doesn’t wanna say lovely, but damn, they are _lovely_.

“Thinkin’ of getting Michael to wear these or something? Cas, you sly dog, always pegged you for a kinky fuck,” he says, like he’s drunk or something, but Cas doesn’t seem to notice beyond testing for elasticity.

Dean tries it for himself, stretching the waistline out, almost like he’s playing the accordian.

“I’ve always wanted nice undergarments like this,” Cas muses, and the underwear Dean was playing with goes flying off to the other end of the store. Even Anna’s snapped out of her discussion long enough to notice. Cas tilts his head at Dean.

“Wh-what? But, um, wouldn’t that make you feel, um, uncomfy?”

“Lace and silk and traditionally feminine things shouldn’t be off limits to me just because I am a man, should it?” Cas seems to be pondering on a broader scale, but Dean still tries to answer.

“No, no reason, um, why- what? Yeah no,” he mutters, “I’m gonna go wait in the car.”

Dean tries his hardest to not think about the combined feeling of silk and stubble touching him everywhere on his way there.

 

* * *

 

The torture doesn’t end there either. On a rare moment where the two are left alone without someone making a comment about it, Dean and Cas are sitting on the porch outside Dean’s house and discussing the important things in life.

“Have you ever given anyone a hand job?” Cas asks after about ten minutes of comfortable silence.

  
Dean just. Looks at him, “Kinda,” he says slowly, “you?”

“Not yet, but I remain hopeful,” Cas answers, scuffing his feet against the wooden panels. “What about blow jobs?”

Dean sighs, “Yeah, y’know Benny?”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, “But you said you didn’t use the number I gave you.”

“I didn’t, really. He was just… and then it just…” Dean gives up. He doesn’t like even talking about it with Cas, let alone anyone else. “Didn’t inspire me to make any repeat performances.”

“What about eating someone out?”  
  
“Dude, what the hell, your dad finally take the child-lock off the TV? You getting porn channels all hours of the night? You know what they say about self abuse, lemme check your hands- ”

Cas slaps Dean’s hands away, and Dean just starts tickling him right there on the bench. “But seriously, have you ever eaten anyone out?”

“No! Actually, maybe once. But we got interrupted,” Dean shudders at the look Mosely gave him with Ellie all over his lips in the janitor’s closet, “They do not mention how mortifying getting caught is in those movies.”

Cas scoffs. “I’ve never even kissed anyone outside of Hannah, and that was just to ‘test’ whether or not I was attracted to her.”

“And?”

“Zilch.”

“Bummer,” Dean chuckles. “Well, that’s what college is for. You get to meet people outside of this backwards ass-clown town. People who make you feel, I don’t know, tingly.”

“You’re so poetic,” Cas laughs, but it turns nervous, “I am concerned about my first real kiss, however. It’s not like I want it to be perfect, there’s no such thing, but- but I don’t want to completely mess it up.”

And then Dean says the stupidest thing he could ever say out loud in the real world as opposed to the fantasy land inside his brain. “You could practice on me.”

It’s the kind of silence people write really boring poetry on. So silent, Dean would go so far as to say it’s stagnant. Yep. Oh boy. “That, we, uhm. Us? Now?” Cas asks and holy shit this is quickly becoming a genuine option. Dean can’t even look at him.

“Y-yeah, why not?” Dean almost chokes, “We’re friends, friends… help each other out.”

Cas seems to think on it a bit longer, and Dean can’t tell because he’s keeping up the whole ‘not looking’ thing. That’s until he feels a roughened hand on his arm, and it’s not pushing, but its mere presence is full of potential. Dean looks at Cas and Cas looks at Dean. There’s a whole lot of looking, lets just say.

Cas’s eyes dart to Dean’s lips, maybe, it’s so quick Dean thinks he may have imagined it, but then he’s leaning in, and Cas is leaning in, and maybe-

“Dean where’re the- oh,” Sam practically bellows, slamming the door open and making Dean jump away from Cas like he’s a live-wire. “S-sorry to interrupt, uh…” Sam looks around awkwardly and just fuckin’ _leaves_ like goddamn does anyone have any decency in this town anymore?

Except Cas is probably wondering the same thing about Dean judging by the betrayed (no no no) look on his face. He grabs his jacket from off Dean’s lap and storms off, and Dean, the epitome of being a fucking coward, doesn’t do anything about it.

Hannah’s probably gonna deep-fry him tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, no deep-frying takes place, but something much worse transpires instead.

“Have you seen Cas?” Charlie shoves her books into her locker and brings out her phone, checking newsfeed’s or whatever she does on that thing.

“What, Cas? No, nope, haven’t, uh… no. You?” Dean somehow forms words (although experts would argue that this a classic case of brain freeze).

Charlie peers at him, “No, that’s why I- no, shit, there he is,” she points almost right across from them. Dean’s blood boils when he sees who Cas is with. He’s tugging at his sleeve in front of Michael Asshat Cohen, who he’s probably asking out, and who’s probably gonna say yes because fuck, who fucking wouldn’t? And then he’s gonna see them walking around school with that lovey dovey look in their eyes and sure, it may not last beyond high school but it’ll mean something to the both of them for the rest of their lives, probably and-

“What the fuck?” Michael barks, pushing Cas away from him. “What the _fuck_ , I’m not gay!”

  
Dean can’t breathe. He can’t see or feel or hear anything (except maybe those kill bill sirens) as he marches into that classroom where Cas is looking grumpy and sad and where Michael PIECE OF LIVING SHIT Cohen is laughing and punches that sucker right in the kisser.

“Dean, stop!” he faintly hears, but then Michael’s cronies are swarming and the whole not feeling anything? Wears off after the fourth (fifth? sixth?) punch to the face. Except until it stops.

There’s the sound of chairs flying and papers being scattered and all he can feel as he’s draped backwards over some poor schmuck’s desk is a roughened hand (his brain helpfully supplies that this is Cas’s hand) pressed lightly against his chest, like he’s leaning on him for breath. Dean manages to lean up to see motherfucking Cas standing over four dudes, including Michael, all groaning and complaining and bleeding from some orifice or another. He’s breathing hard but he’s basically unharmed.

Cas turns around, however, and Dean thinks he might be vaporised momentarily. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”

Dean looks past him and claps Cas on the shoulder, “Nice work, man. You been workin’ out?”

Cas grabs Dean off the desk, but as Dean stumbles, Cas presses his hand (ah, it’s warm) against Dean’s chest to hold him up. He looks at Dean, and then the weirdest thing happens. Cas just sighs and smiles at Dean lugging them both out of the ruined classroom.

Needless to say, they get detention.


	17. it's my headspace and i can cry if i want to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief panic attack, past suicide attempt mention, sick parent....... i'm so sorry...

Dean’s still holding an ice pack to his own face, and he’s fuming. Of course, his mom got notified, and of course, Sam’s in the back after having to wait for an hour for Dean to get out of detention, and of course he invited Cas back to his, and he is _fuming_. Worst of all, everyone in the car can tell. Cas sits shotgun and stares outside the whole journey, Sam’s just sighing and looking at the ceiling, and neither of them speak. Dean can’t even process any of this because, well, **he is fuming.**

Just the thought of that smug fuck’s face as he rejected Cas, like that’s something to be proud of, like he didn’t just deprive himself of- of- _fuck_.

Dean almost screeches to a halt, pulling over next to a cornfield and just grips the wheel, knuckles straining against the tension, white and stretched. He breathes hard, one two one two, like that guy on youtube said (yeah, the panic attacks have been comin’ on thicker and faster than before, so what?). It kind of works. He focuses on Cas’s presence beside him, on Sam’s behind him. They’re both still still, but with an alien tension in the air, their spines ramrod straight.

“Dean?” Sam asks, his voice a little shaky, “You okay?”

Dean manages a nod. Cas’s hand hovers above his shoulder, connecting in a light touch that makes Dean flinch. “Dean.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Dean grimaces. He doesn’t want them worrying.

“Dean, listen, I’m here.”

“Yup,” and- huh. Weird. His heart’s containing itself for once. He evens out, and he can finally look at Cas. Now it’s whether or not he _wants_ to that’s the dilemma.  

Sam’s silent in the back. He’s seen this before, but Mom’s generally been there too and sorted it out. It’s never interrupted real life before.

“I can’t believe you let that douchebag speak to you like that,” he finally says. He stares at Cas, really damn well stares at him, because he can’t stand this.

Cas looks frustrated? Exasperated? “Well, you hardly gave me the chance to react in the .08 seconds it took you to act like an asshole.”

Dean explodes, “He was a dick!”

“I can handle it!” Cas bites back, his fists clenching.

He doesn’t want him to be angry, he just wants him to know- what exactly? “I’m not sayin’ you can’t, Cas, fuck, this isn’t- I’m not trying to- ”

“I am not a child, and I do not need protecting! You are my friend, not my guard dog!”

They’re in each other’s laps, practically, almost screaming at each other, so up in each other’s personal space; it’s nauseating how close they are. Cas relents a little, but Dean’s the one that admits defeat. He leans back and turns the engine back on. He can hear Sammy still holding his breath.

“Dean- ”

“Whatever, Cas, I’m sorry,” and he sounds dismissive, he sounds like a dick, but he means it. Somehow Cas realises this (maybe) because he smiles sadly out the window. Like he knows that this isn’t what Dean really wants, this incalculable space between Dean and okay.

When they get home, Cas comes up to Dean’s room. They sit and wait for Mary’s storm-like anger followed by stale lemon cake and tea, right after a too-long shift.

Cas looks at the wall, leaning back against Dean’s wardrobe, fit-to-burst, and looks at Dean as he writes. Tries to write. He won’t stop looking, so it’s unlikely anything will get done tonight. He frowns over at Cas.

“Dude, what is it?”

“You,” Cas says, simply, like the way he speaks, the casual reverence in every word he says, that he’s assigned to _this_ word, isn’t something that makes Dean want to crawl into his arms and never come out. “You’re wonderful, Dean. I just- I didn’t get that across before. But you are.”

Dean must’ve just been staring because then Cas starts looking concerned, “Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re… you’re awesome, too,” he mumbles. Cas rolls his eyes and gets up.

“I’m getting some water, you want some?”

“Yes, person that doesn’t live here,” Dean jokes, but Cas just puts his middle finger up and five minutes later he’s back with two glasses. He plonks it down next to his papers and kicks Dean’s chair a little.

“Hurry up, I want to know what happens.”

 

* * *

 

He’s half-asleep when he feels a hand, pressed warm against his belly, pull him closer into an ever hotter body. He groans with the heat, because it’s too much along with the sun beating down on curtains that he forgot to close before they went to bed, _again_.

Dean wriggles around and in those arms, facing Cas, who’s already looking grumpy before he’s even woken up. Dean presses a kiss at the hinge of his jaw, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. He wakes up in awe every morning, to have a view like this.

“Stop it,” Cas grumbles, tightening his grip so they’re pressed up against each other, toes to nose. “No undue adulation before caffeine, please.”

He cracks an eyelid open and grins at Dean, catching his mouth in an open, wet kiss. He stinks of stale toothpaste and fresh pine, and Dean’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been. Cas snakes his fingers down to Dean’s hole, circling the rim like a promise. It’s still a little loose from their 3am shenanigans, a little tipsy and a lot horny. Cas hums, licking a stripe up Dean’s neck. He never stops touching him. Dean never stops whining and pushing forward, always greedy for more.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas sighs, dipping his finger in and out, breathing Dean in like he’s dying for it, desperate for him, always.

Dean can’t even speak, so constricted by want, his hips bucking intermittently. Cas rolls him onto his back, scooping him up and gripping everywhere tightly, fingers forgotten because Dean is everything to him. And Dean grips back, tighter, his hands flighty and indecisive, because Cas is _here_ , Cas is rapture, Cas is salt and earth and

The alarm is a crow. The alarm crows in his ear, like its proud of itself that it just ruined the best thing Dean’s ever had. He feels the come already drying on his boxers, his heart thudding heavily, like it knows what it lost, even if it wasn’t real. Even it never will be.

He tries not to cry. He fails.

 

* * *

 

Charlie doesn’t go to school much anymore, but the school’s okay with that, what with her basically looking after her mom all day (discharged from the hospital because the food was too crappy: classic Mrs Bradbury). Werner still hasn’t woken up, though.

Dean comes over as often as he can to help with dinner and chores so Charlie can actually get some work done, but tonight, after her mom’s already dozed off (she’s so tired lately, of course), she’s joining Dean in doing the dishes, because the American Revolution can, and quote, ‘suck her big pink strap-on’.

They’ve been friends for long enough that comfortable silence is a given, but Dean can tell when Charlie’s holding out on him, and worse, when she _needs_ to talk to someone. So he nudges her (sudsy marigolds aren’t good for sweaters) until she flicks water at his face.

“What?”

Dean shrugs, “What’s goin’ on with you, dude?”

She looks down and dries her plates obsessively, like she’s on a factory line, “Nothin’ much, just the usual. Cabin fever and Netflix marathons while I wait on Mommy Dearest hand and foot.”

“And of course you’re loving it,” Dean nods.

“Duh.”

He pauses a little, his voice small even in the cramped kitchen, “And your dad?”

“Blah, blah, medical jargon, blah blah. The works,” she snorts, “they try and confuse my mom but she just stares them down…” she shoves the plates into the sink. “Must be bad. Even she won’t give it to me straight.”

She looks ahead. The moon’s full. She looks down to the plate she’s just cracked. The shards almost look inviting in a twisted sort of way. She kicks the cabinet door, hard. It sounds like a gunshot.

As she slides down, she covers her face. She’s not crying, not yet. This is bad. Dean slides down beside her, pulling her towards his chest. He kisses the top of her head as she feels her ready to scream and kick and bite and claw for nothing at all really. What would any of that do for a man in a coma?

“I never got to tell him, Dean,” she says in a rush, like she didn’t get a letter in time. “He doesn’t know, what if he doesn’t know?”

He knows. Dean doesn’t even have to say it, but Charlie does. Charlie just needs to process all of this out loud, like she probably hasn’t been since it happened, too tied up in potential grief and anticipated loss. She’s in limbo and there’s no definitive way out.

She takes his hand and puts it on her hair, and he takes his cue, stroking her head and humming low so she can feel it through her cheek. She’s not crying yet. She waits until he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

_James couldn’t hold the doors open much longer and fear flickered through the Smith’s eyes for the first time, viridian panic._

_“Please, James, stop!” he cried, but the threshold malfunctioned anyway, sparking a huge volt to shoot out, almost hitting James in the head. “NO!”_

_That was the last thing James heard before the following thud onto the clean, anaemic bough. A hole, about three kets in diameter, right through the centre of the Smith’s middle. Who knows what organs he was meant to have, because they were gone now._

_The Smith looked up at James, breaths ragged. His hand traced over James’s face, touching tears. “I wasn’t sure what I was thinking, my love,” the Smith choked, and James along with him, although for different reasons. “That was not very smart of me.”_

_James openly wept, though it burned like acid to produce water. His body, his soul demanded it. “Don’t…” he gasped, which was odd, because air had never been an issue before, “Please don’t leave me, please I don’t want you to go…”_

_He held the corpse to him for hours, blood and charred flesh clinging to his still-functioning body, like some juxtaposing thought piece, cruel and snivelling. He was gone. He’d loved him and he was gone._

His fingers still on the keyboard. It’s too much, thinking about it. It’s like death is in the air, or something.

Dean sits back, staring at the ceiling. It happened once. The first (and only) time he tried. He was fifteen. His dad was still at the forefront of his brain, no matter how much thermodynamics he choked down, no matter how he looked to the stars for answers, no matter how hard he pummelled the walls of the red barn until his knuckles split.

There was a disconnect and a fact, that was the only thing capable of saving him. Where the liquor was stashed. Six tylenol and too much whiskey later, there was a tube narrowly missing piercing into his oesophagus to save his life. Served him right, really. He was an asshole.

The liquor was placed somewhere else. The tylenol was never discussed, but never given freely again. Casual jokes about killing himself became sparse. The thoughts he had were never spoken about, never acted upon. This, he’d reasoned, was good.

He knows, academically, that those thoughts are bad.

There are still days, though. Wouldn’t it be nice to die a hero?


	18. moment of bluth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: okay some serious horrid misgendering towards the end of this, tread careful-like! the rest is, as the cool kids say, pretty nice. BUt look at the chapter notes for a fun extra thing!!!

Months of plateau seem to go by before the break comes by and releases everyone from dreaded routine for a couple of weeks. It feels like nothing changes except the fact that Charlie and Hannah are each other’s personal Typhoid Mary’s, Sam is suddenly retreating into himself (very weird) and Dean is the human manifestation of a downer. He hasn’t worked out since his birthday, and it doesn’t even fucking matter because Cas would never- anyway. He hasn’t got the energy for it, and all the energy he does have is going all in for Columbia. Writing so long he has no time for sleep, and sleeping so long he has no time for anything else. Break is a blessing. The only thing he’s been truly looking forward to is a package that should’ve arrived a few weeks ago but has finally re-routed to the _correct_ address and should get to the Winchester household soon enough. Dean’s ready to burst, because he knows Cas will probably love him forever (not like that, but Dean’s given up on all that. Whatever.), and this might finally get him outta this weird funk he’s been in.

He knows something is weird with Cas when they’re watching some French cartoon he’d been bugging Dean about for ages and instead of that cute- um, scrunched-up frustration thing he usually has going on, his face is bare of emotion. A slab of stone. Really hot stone, but stone nonetheless.

“ _Belleville Rendez-Vous_ just not doin’ it Bellville Pour-Vous?” Dean nudges.

Cas snorts, at least, “Very nice use of your eighth grade French, Dean.”

Dean shrugs, modest, but still playing, “Je essayer.”

Cas sighs instead of correcting him, so now he knows something is definitely up. “Hey, you okay?”

“Things have been… a little stagnant lately,” he chews his lip slowly, not looking at Dean, “Chuck is difficult on good days.”

“And on bad days?”

Cas doesn’t answer, but that’s okay. He rolls onto his back and watches the film upside down, like that’ll do anything to make the characters look less gross. “I love this part.”

Referring to the final act, cyclists with thick calves and huge noses slave away at perpetual motion and Dean feels a little sick, “I hate this, like- all of it.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s creepy, man! How everyone’s so weird-lookin’ and the main character hardly even talks!” Dean can practically feel the temperature lowering, but if he can’t tell Cas how he feels, even about stupid shit like this, then who _can_ he tell? “Like, don’t get me wrong, it’s creative and interesting, but I wouldn’t watch this on a date, or whatever.”

“Good thing this isn’t one, then,” Cas bites back, and it makes Dean’s hairs stand on end.

Dean clears his throat, “Whatever.”

No one really says anything after that, letting the music fade out over the credits. Neither of them pay attention to the credits.

Something is even weirder when Dean answers the door on a Wednesday afternoon (day firmly spent in bed and painfully awake) to find Cas all… dolled up. Seriously. Blue sundress, all embroidered with tiny sunflowers. He’s even got make-up on. So, Dean does what he does best.

“Wanna watch Doctor Sexy?” he breathes out. Holy shit, he is not fooling anyone.

Cas just looks… so fucking uncomfortable. It’s a little hard to breathe just looking at him. He raises his hands up uselessly then bursts into tears, right on Dean’s porch. Dean gathers him into the house and sits him on the couch. He has no idea where to stand/sit/exist, so he just stands right in front of Cas while he sobs into his hands, mascara running like nobody’s business.

“I’m so foolish,” he whispers and Dean pats his shoulder. Damn, he’s usually better than this. “I am- pathetic, and, and ugly and I’m so tired, Dean, I’m so- ”

He can’t say anything else, because he has an awkward lap full of Dean. Well, an awkward leaning tower of Dean, gripping onto him for dear life. “Please, Cas, you aren’t, you aren’t.”

They stay like that for a moment, Cas recollecting breath and clinging back. Then he pats Dean’s shoulder a couple times, and Dean finally collapses next to him. He places his hand inches away from Cas’s, and it gets held slowly as Cas speaks.

“Do you want to know what’s strange? I used to quite like dresses. I used to like this one in particular, being my mother’s and all,” Dean’s breath hitches, but Cas’s fingers are also sliding between his, so he tries to concentrate on several things at once, “I thought one day I would grow into it, but now- now I look in the mirror and I see a stranger. I see a hollowed-out version of myself that isn’t quite right. Like every time I see my face I’m looking through a distorted looking-glass. And I- I don’t, I can’t stand it,” he squeezes tighter, Dean just nodding and listening and trying not to cry while Cas is being so damn stoic, the asshole, “This dress is no longer a fond memory but a- a polyester prison. It doesn’t mean girl, but it does mean wrong, and I won’t be complicit in feeling wrong but I’m tired of being told that my instincts aren’t real. I’m tired of being told who I am by people that don’t know and you,” he pauses, the first time in his speech that he’s taken a moment, “You are the only one that understands, cliché as that sounds.”

Now that’s- what? “Cas, hate to break it to you, but I ain’t trans. I couldn’t possibly know- ”

“And yet, here you are, holding my hand as I pour my heart out,” Cas sniffs, wiping his nose with their conjoined hands (Dean should find it gross, he _should_ , but he’s a fucking sap), “and you just… listen.”

Cas takes a moment, staring at Dean, his profile stark against the fading light of the afternoon. He knows he’s nothing much, but Cas- when he _looks_ at him like that, fuck. It’s too much to look directly at. It’s always too much with Cas. “You wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer. Or a sketch, I’m bound to sit still for a while.”

“There’s something there that I recognise,” Cas murmurs, “and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there, Dean.”

Dean almost chokes on his words, getting up and taking Cas with him, “C’mon, you wanna borrow a good shirt? I think Sam has some khakis that might fit you.”

Cas pulls him back so they’re looking eye to eye and Dean just gets so lost, that he fails to notice Cas’s little devilish smirk, “Are you calling me a wimp, Dean Winchester? I’ll outrun you any day.”

Dean doesn’t fucking blush, okay, it’s getting warmer again. Fuck-

 

* * *

  

Cas ain’t kidding. He challenges him to a race the next morning, when Dean hasn’t run in a literal age. Asshole. He’s still an asshole even as he limbers up and stretches right in front of Dean, as if the view of his ass isn’t fucking pornographic. Great, now Dean’s thinking almost exclusively of Cas’s asshole, like that’s not gonna hinder him even more. Awesome.

“Think you can keep up?” Cas states, “My mile gets shorter every few weeks.”

Dean scoffs (what? a guy’s gotta bluff sometimes) and pretends to limber up too, “In your dreams, Novak.”

Cas smiles privately to himself as he bends over to touch his toes, “Are you ready?”

“On your marks…” Dean starts off low, “get set…” and yells, “GO!”

He’s not entirely sure how it happens, but Cas is a fuckin’ bullet and Dean’s already a couple metres behind when he starts. And he falls further behind when he watches Cas’s goddamn frickin’ legs pump like machines, his hair blowing thanks to speed. He’s magnificent.

He also beats Dean in almost two seconds flat. “Told you so,” he pants as Dean jogs up.

“Uh-huh, rematch?”

 

* * *

 

 

If he didn’t have his head in the clouds (read: fantasies of Cas running), Dean might’ve noticed he was interrupting a Deep Conversation when he approaches their booth at the Roadhouse and sees Anna and Charlie practically jump back from each other.

“Hey, what’s up… bro?” Anna tries but she slumps. Charlie throws her hands up.

“Dude, ever heard of announcing your presence?” she snaps as she squeaks over in her seat to make room. “Thought you might be someone else.”

“Is this someone else Jo?” Dean ventures, and he might as well’ve just said JJ Abrams is a visionary for the sheer hellfire he gets in response. He’s not exaggerating. Charlie is a very scary person.

Charlie punches him and Anna nearly launches across the table to keep him quiet, getting spinach all over her shirt. She scrambles to get up, ignoring the mess, looking around every moment before looking back and around like she’s in some kinda shoot ‘em up. And hellfire ain’t got nothing on the look she gives him, “You have the finesse of a sixteen-wheeler.”

“You’re the… sixteen- whatever, what’s goin’ on?”

“What’re we talkin’ about, gang?” Jo sidles up out of goddamn no-where (Dean’s considering getting them all matching cow bells). Her smile ( _smile?!_ ) is wide and Stepford-y which is weird enough, but it’s the order on her tray that’s even weirder.

“Is that a cherry coke float? What the- ”

“Charlie dared me to drink it,” Anna says slowly, looking literally everywhere but Jo. Jo, on the other hand, is acting like no one else in the world exists except Anna. And not in a cute way, more like a heat-seeking missile that’s located its target way. “She thought that my stance against it was… immature.”

“Yeah! It’s not like we’re too old to try new things, right Jo?” Charlie pipes up, staring Jo down. For all intents and purposes this kinda stare-on-stare should level mountains, but there’s something uneasy that Dean can’t really trace, some kinda telepathic nonsense. Now he gets the sense of what it’s like to witness a DeanCas stare-off. “And if Anna can let go of things she thought when she was like six, maybe we all can.”

Jo hums, setting it down on the table. She seems to be conceding, “Yeah, maybe…” right up until Anna actually tastes the red-ish ice cream monstrosity and _moans_.

“Oh my- this is incredible,” she whispers and Dean’s hoping he’s not the only one going as red as the leather seats. He looks subtly to his right to see Jo’s lip trembling (just a little) before she whips her dish-rag off her belt to whip it over her shoulder as usual. Except on the trajectory, it makes a quick pitstop off at Anna’s full glass and it tips right onto her.

Suddenly everyone in the Roadhouse is looking at them. Well, not them, exactly, more Jo and how she’s desperately trying to clean up the mess all over Anna’s overalls. It’s pretty bad, but it’s kinda adorable how Jo seems to think she’s being subtle. He knows the signs of the kind of person that acts like they’ve missed their boat and tries everything to make up for it. Jo’s got it bad, and it’s about damn time.

“Oh, shit, Anna, oh my fuck, I’m so sorry, I- ” she rambles, almost knocking Anna’s plate off the table too, but Charlie stonily catches it in time, “Lemme- I think I’ve got a spare shirt in the back, you can wear it?”

“Oh, no, Jo, that’s okay,” Anna starts, but her face is just as flat as Charlie’s, so what the hell’s goin’ on here?

Jo rushes off anyway, her bright ponytail swinging behind her, almost knocking Kevin right off his stool and not stopping to say a thing. Once Anna’s certain she’s gone, she gently pillows her head into her arms and heaves a big sigh. “I knew it.”

“Overcompensation is so lame, dude, it’s okay, she’ll get over it,” Charlie reassures, patting Anna’s elbow at a steady pace before resuming her milkshake.

Dean just looks between the two of them, “Are- what? What am I missing here?”

Anna sighs and looks up at Dean (sorta, her chin’s only separated from the table by her pinkies at this point), her big eyes imploring, “She knows.”

Okay, Dean is definitely missing a link here, “And?”

He gets a swat around the head, “Hey! Do I need to call child services on you, Slapsbury?!”

“Insensitive comment eliminator. Rudimentary but effective, patent pending,” she deadpans, “Jo knows that Anna’s been doodling ‘Mrs. Anna Harvelle-Milton’ all over her day-planners since forever so now she’s overcompensating to prevent hurting Anna’s feelings. It’s terrible.”

“Okay, no, that is definitely not- she’s not overcompensating because of that!” Dean cries, “She’s just figuring herself out!”

“Figuring herself out? Like,” Charlie wiggles her fingers over her lap, “figuring herself out?”

“No, just- whether or not she likes Anna or not! It’s a thing!”

Neither redhead look impressed, but Dean can’t keep projecting for too long; Jo’s back with the shirt. “Hey, it’s, uh, it’s probably in your size…” she places it, obviously hastily folded, beside Anna, and waits expectantly. She looks around the table, “Charlie, um, how’s your dad?” She chews her lips a little, almost subtle in her attempts to sit next to Anna so she can pay proper attention to Charlie.

“No offence, dude, but I don’t really wanna talk about it here,” Charlie says, quieter than she’s been in a while. They all look down, embarrassed, but Harvelle’s got something up her sleeve.

Jo just takes off her apron and slams it onto the table, “Great, where d’ya wanna go?” They all gape at her like the booth’s turned into a fucking koi pond. Jo never gets off early. Ever. “You wanna catch flies? C’mon, we’re burnin’ daylight here.”

She walks out, without much more ado, and Dean just looks at Anna and Charlie pointedly, “Let’s go overcompensate with our friend, huh? Sound good?” He smiles and they all get out of the booth, trekking all the way to that one hill up in Gladd’s Park.

Dean regrets it almost immediately. While he’s always loved all his friends equally, they do sometimes get into the habit of ganging up on him to reveal information. And since he hasn’t exactly been the most open book lately (the crushing panic attacks, the new college, other things that start with ‘c’) their collective powers are at their peak.

“So, Dean-o, seen any good movies lately?” Oh no, it’s started, “See, I’ve been meaning to watch Mad Max, heard you’ve got a copy of it.”

He snorts, a pathetic attempt at delaying the inevitable onslaught. “Oh yeah? Hacker deluxe can’t even navigate pirate bay? That’s almost shameful, Lamesbury.”

Charlie puts her hands on her hips, which obviously means Dean’s about to get eaten alive, “Oh, really? Cas says you got it off of me, which is weird, because I thought you were getting him off, oh, wait, getting _it off him_.”

She’s not even trying, goddammit, where’s the artistry, “Okay, haha, laugh it up, fuzzball, you done?”

“Not even! You don’t even notice anyone anymore, Dean!” Anna coos, “You don’t even try. It’s adorable.”

Jo sniggers, finally part of the trio instead of the outsider, so she puts in her two cents, “When _are_ you gonna confess your big gay crush to Cas, anyway?”

“Big bisexual crush, actually, asswipe,” he corrects. The stars are starting to come out. They look nice. In fact, they’re the only thing he’s focussing on right now because he knows that the second he looks over at Charlie, Anna and Jo is the moment he’s gonna have to suffer the consequences of coming out over a goddamn _joke_. He’d be humiliated if he still gave a shit, but honestly, he just wants it to already be common knowledge so they can move on. But that’s not how his friends operate, no siree Bob.

“What the fuck, asshole, now?”

“ _That’s_ \- oh my god, DEAN!”

“Uh.”

Charlie attacks him from the back, Anna practically throws herself into his lap, while Jo’s just kinda looking at him in stunned silence from the other side. He knows it’s partly an excuse to look more at Anna, but he’s not that much of a dick. “I’m so proud of you, Dean,” Anna squeals, “but oh my god, finally!”

Jo snorts, “Right, left-field or what?”

“What, Harvelle, you had no damn clue,” Dean shoves her and she returns it with a noogie, thank fuck. “You thought Charlie was straight until eighth grade.”

Charlie scrubs her fingers through Dean’s hair and they all finally collapse in a little heap, Dean’s head on Charlie’s stomach, and Anna and Jo sharing Dean’s belly, pinching it at various times, almost experimentally. They talk about nothing and watch as the stars shine a little more brightly in the fading dusk. A shooting star (or maybe it’s a helicopter, shut up) crosses the sky, and they all follow its path.

“Make a wish,” Charlie says, under her breath yet clear as a bell. They all raise an imaginary cup.

“To Cal,” Anna says. Four empty fists raise toasts into the void. It’s cold by the time they leave.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything’s ready, everything’s perfect, he even got the perfect wrapping paper (obviously the Sunday funnies, they’re the best works of art one could get) and all the snacks are ready too. Sam’s upstairs, but that’s fine, he’s been busy with Nintendogs since break started, and he barely needs to come up for air. It doesn’t matter that Cas’s birthday has been and gone, this is vital and frankly overdue.

“Dean?” he hears through the window, “Dean, are you actually in there?”

“Yeah!” Dean scrambles to get the door, “Yeah, dude, we’re ready, I’m ready!”

Cas wanders in stopping in front of Dean for a second, digging his hands into the large pockets on his sweater, “It’s been seventeen minutes, what- oh.”

He catches sight of the living room which is filled with small multi-coloured balloons (Dean has no more breath left in his body, it’s official), and so much food it’d make a five year old lecture about portion control. And he’s set out a few DVD’s, which Cas is looking over now.

“Is this…” his fingers trail over the plastic covers, “There are all Don Bluth?”

“Yeah, remembered you liked his style more than Disney’s, so- yeah, gathered some of the best one’s,” Dean throws his hands out, “and like, they’re awesome, and you’re- yeah.”

Cas hasn’t really said anything else, still looking around like none of this is real. “Please don’t tell me this is the first laughably late birthday party you’ve ever been to? I know Hannah runs like a fascist train schedule but like, c’mon!”

“You did this for me?” Cas whispers, not looking at Dean for a moment, his eyes still searching over the goddamn fine-ass cornucopia Dean’s set out.

Dean shrugs, getting a little bit closer to Cas so he can clap his hands around his shoulders and pull him into a tight hug, “Happy belated Birthday, Castiel.”

He pulls away and Cas has stars in his eyes (awesome, so fucking awesome), so he drags him over to the couch. They settle down, Dean’s heart thumping hard against his ribs as Cas sits very still, a little owlish at everything. He picks up a cheese ball (knew it) and pops it into his mouth, crunching politely. Dean clicks the remote and the previews play on, all intensely old movies, a churning nostalgia rising up in Dean’s chest. He can’t help but almost feel like this is domestic, or at least domestic-adjacent. Cas by his side feels so right, feels like the only real thing in his life right now.

“I love this movie, dude,” Dean murmurs as the opening song closes. He grins, even if his smile feels too wide. “Makes me think of, like, our lives.”

Cas finally moves, if only to tilt his head at the screen, “A film about a smaller-than-average woman makes you think of our lives?”

“Yeah, kinda. I mean, here’s this awesome person that is- is b- is awesome, but they’re born into a world that doesn’t cater to their needs or whatever, and barely tries to. There are people that try to accommodate them, but at the end of the day, they’re isolated. Then they find their people. They find people that understand, and finally they…” he’s rambled. He sounds like such a douchebag when he rambles. Except Cas is captivated.

“They, what, Dean?” he says, hardly louder than the TV set.

Dean swallows, “They belong somewhere.”

They’re both quiet as Thumbelina meets her prince. Dean’s stepped on something. This whole thing has been way too freakish, why the hell did he think them being by themselves was a good idea? He’s so- “And who’s our main character?” Castiel says carefully.

Dean thinks about this a bit. He watches as Thumbelina’s made to dance and sing when she doesn’t want to, while she’s a performance, a conversation piece, not a person and- “You an’ me,” Dean decides. “Like our kind of… mix. Little bit of daring and rebellion, like you, little bit of a dreamer.”

“Like you,” Cas muses. “Yes.”

A stone settles warm in his gut, a strange comfort to keep him tethered here. Cas is quieter these days. Dean reckons he’s still looking over art schools, but the tuition’s a fucking catastrophe, so he’s doubtlessly stressed beyond anything. Plus, Chuck’s acting up and that’s never good for anyone. When he shifts and practically snuggles into Dean’s side, it’s like a delicious shock up Dean’s spine. As the Toad is propositioning Thumbelina, Cas asks, “So why All Dogs Go to Heaven?”

“Charlie Sheen as a dog? How could anyone refuse,” Dean says, his voice low in his chest. He feels Cas shiver next to him and pulls a throw from the other chair and tucks it around him. “You okay?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he nods against Dean, which is good as anything. They cycle through the rest of the movies until the sun starts to set, and Dean taps Cas’s shoulder and drags him up and outside to watch the sky catch fire over the landscape. Dean loves this place, and he loves Cas. It’s nice when days like this are clear and here and his.

“You can go home soon, Cas. Just gotta give you your last present,” Dean mentions as the sun finally dips below the horizon. He looks over at Cas, dares to, really, and Cas keeps gulping. His eyes are full and bright and present. He… Dean doesn’t wanna say overwhelmed but, it seems that way, and that could be worrying. “Dude, are you- I’m sorry, if this, shit, I don’t know, all of this is kinda hooked on the fact that I didn’t get to give you your present before I met you, ha…” He scratches his neck and Cas looks back at him wide-eyed.

“Dean…” and his voice is a little trembly, and Dean grabs him and pulls him into a hug. “I… I have no words.”

“Jeez, at least gimme a good yelp review,” Dean breathes over his shoulder. He smells like popcorn.

Cas, master of dealing with Dean-flections, just holds Dean tighter. “Where’s my present, then?”

The earth nearly scorches with how fast Dean runs back into the house and fetches Cas’s lovingly wrapped little gift. Weeks of yard work and babysitting are finally paying off in the look on Cas’s face. He slides his finger precisely under the tape and unfastens to keep the paper intact. That’s when he sees the material. “Oh my god,” Cas says, blunt as anything. He pulls the two binders out, the first a plain black, the second dark blue with a bunch of cartoon stars spaced out with gold glitter glinting a little under the kitchen lights. Cas holds them up against himself and covers his mouth, his mouth a growing ‘o’.

“So, y’like it?” Dean asks, even though he damn well knows. “Now you’ve got no damn excuse to keep wearin’ those shitty bandages _ever_ , okay?”

He’s just watching Cas’s face, except what he doesn’t expect is for Cas to come up to him, placing the binders carefully on the kitchen island, and cupping Dean’s face in his hands. Dean’s fucking petrified, rooted to his spot as Cas slowly looks in each of Dean’s eyes, his fingers (more calloused than he’d realised) almost massaging his cheekbones in little circles. Cas’s gaze never wavers. Dean needs to look just as deeply into his eyes so he doesn’t look at his lips…

“Dean Winchester. I have never in my life known anyone like you,” Cas says, gravely, not moving his hands or eyes from Dean, a sunbeam right onto Dean’s very being, “thank you.”

Dean sighs a little, hoping Cas isn’t close enough to hear how his heart is fluttering like a fucking bird. “My pleasure, Cas.”

Cas lets go (a shame, really) and looks towards the rest of the food. “May we watch something else? I’d hate to leave the rest of that marshmallow fluff.”

Dean chuckles and jumps over the back of the couch and settles in his spot, waiting for Cas to sit beside him, in _his_ spot.

This is good. This is safe and good. Dean is in love with his best friend, but that’s okay. His best friend is here. He’s okay and he’s here. That’s all that matters.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, all that can never last too long.

Dean heads over to Cas’s to pick him up to go meet Hannah for some English readings just so they can bounce off each other in class on Monday instead of actually reading the damn book. He knocks on the door before letting himself in as usual, except he narrowly ducks a very crusty version of some hardboiled crime thriller as its hurled at the door.

“Oh, uh- ”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Chuck yells, and woah, he’s never heard Chuck _yell_ before. It’s a pretty jarring contrast to the usually mild-mannered drunk. “If he’s the one that’s entertained this stupid fucking behaviour- ”

Cas scoffs, an ugly sound, “You mean actually listening to me and treated me like a fucking human being?”

“Language!” Chuck snarls.

“Most parents actually try and take care of their children, _Chuck,_ instead of pretending to give a shit about ‘language’! Groundbreaking, for you, I’m sure!”

“You listen to me, Claire, you go up to your room and you get rid of those things…”

“That’s not his name,” Dean hears himself saying. He breathes it, like it’s blasphemous to even entertain the thought of thinking Cas is Claire, that he was ever Claire. “His name is Castiel.” He sounds so calm, that’s why everyone’s staring at him like he’s turned to gold.

“ _Her_ name is Claire. Were you in the delivery room, kid? Have you raised anyone? Hmm? This is my daughter and-”

“No, no, he’s your son,” Dean keeps saying it like a prayer, like he’s begging for Chuck to just listen. He looks at Cas, who seems to just be watching.

Chuck rubs his eyes, long-sufferingly, “I assume he is the one that gave you those… things?”

“My binders? Yeah,” Cas strikes his chin up, and holy fuck. Holy fuck this is all Dean’s fault. Cas is fighting with his dad and it’s Dean’s fault.

Chuck nods, and he rummages past the brown bottles on the bookshelf for his car keys. He takes his hat off the hat stand, his coat too, and puts them on while the two boys watch. It’s like watching a car crash happen, rubber-necking such an odd occurrence.

“Well, fine, you’re a boy,” Chuck breathes, opening the door, “but I don’t have a son. I’ve never had a son, and I never will.”

With that, he shuts the door, sliding it closed with a slight click. No slams, no explosions. Just a silent dismissal, a silent disowning. So quick neither has time to really react.

Cas falls to his knees by the couch, gripping onto it for sanity and/or balance. His breaths are coming a little heavy, a little over-considered, but by and large, they’re even. “This is a very strange sensation,” Cas remarks, like he’s found out it’s going to hail tomorrow. He looks up at Dean and his mouth pulls at the corner, his face spelling out pure relief. “I- What do I do?

“You… I don’t know, Cas,” Dean mutters, going over to him and lifting him onto the sticking couch. “I’m sorry, I don’t actually know.”

This is all Dean’s fault, oh god oh god, Cas is never gonna forgive him for this, oh- “Thank you, Dean. You have been… enlightening.”

Dean doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he just lets Cas lean, still wildly breathless, on his shoulder. That’s when Cas starts fucking _laughing_ , like this is fine. Newsflash: it is absolutely not fucking fine. Dean knows what it’s like to lose a father. It’s not- this isn’t… Cas should be completely devastated, right? He’s just lost his only family. But he’s smiling, _god_ , smiling like his cheeks could give out any second and there are tears but he looks so damn happy.

He clutches his chest, then clutches Dean’s shoulder, a lifeline. It’s terrifying, his incredible strength. “Dude, seriously, what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Cas stops for a moment. He looks around the piece of shit he’s been living in for eight years, and breathes it in. “We’ll make it up as we go along.”

It sounds like a damn good plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: i have been reliably informed that the binder stores i recc'd aren't super great, so thank you MorningStar461 and encryptionmodus for the recommendation of gc2b.co !!! these are apparently better priced and more comfortable!! no one should bind with bandages, okay?! it's not good, i want y'all to be lookin' after your precious selves (yes, you too)


	19. some assembly expired

The next day carries a little extra weight in its step, and Dean knows he shouldn’t be sad for Cas (Cas isn’t sad for Cas, and the last thing the guy needs is pity), but when he looks at the pit the guy’s called home for so long, as they try and make a dent in the orgy of evidence that his dad was an alcoholic, it’s… well it’s sad. That he’s had this to contend with on top of everything else.

“Seriously, how much Foster’s can one guy down? Shit’s heavy,” Dean comments, but Cas smirks.

The whole room stinks, the curtains are beyond saving, the couch needs refurnishing/burning, and the carpet needs to be torn up. And that’s only once they’ve gone over everything with a fine tooth comb and a steamer. And three vacuum cleaners. It’s a disaster.

“Chuck was never one for anything other than zero sum, unfortunately,” Cas says, tying up the third garbage-liner full of crap, “it was either being a functioning member of society or drowning his sorrows.”

Suddenly a light bulb flashes red in Dean’s brain, “You’re tellin’ me child services never got in on this?”

Cas just shrugs (this whole nonchalance thing is getting tired real fast), “The Novaks have remarkable amounts of power, and they aren’t afraid of using it to avoid scandal and/or embarrassment. That’s how Chuck and I stayed under the radar all these years,” his voice shakes a little, but no tears, “why he was able to indulge with no consequences and why no one let him seek help because god help us all, that would show us all up, wouldn’t it?”

He stares at the ground, his fists clenched, and Dean doesn’t wanna go over there. Cas needs some space, but he needs a helluva lot more than that. He needs help.

“Hey, dude, I’m just gonna, uh, head out for a sec, you gonna be okay?”

Cas nods, and Dean nearly jumps out of the house as soon as he does. He’s got a lot of work to do.

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out it’s not too bad (thank fuck with group texts) and basic home supplies aren’t a problem when you’ve got Anna Moneybags Milton on your team (he gets a lot of “why the fuck didn’t you tell us earlier”s, but it gets the job done).

The sun’s getting a little low in the day when Cas opens his door to find everyone, brooms and bags and potentially illegal power cleaners ready, waiting to be let in.

“Dean, what did you- ”

Charlie pushes past them all and sticks her finger in his face, “You gotta problem, Novak? You fucking tell us. You need our help? You fucking tell us. Your dad getting out of dodge and leaving you with a mess to clean up? That, compadre, is a problem that needs more than two high school losers can handle. So we’re here. Either deal with it or pipe the hell down while we get to work, got it?”

Cas just stands there, carefully pushing her finger away from his face so he can hug her. She looks a little confused back at everyone, clearing her throat, “Good, wow, thought I’d need to be more convincing.”

“You’ve been watching too much Law & Order,” Hannah sighs, and pushes past them all to get started. Charlie stares after her before snapping out of it and piping up:

“I brought my laptop so we can get pizza later?”

Dean puts his hand on her shoulder, “C’mon, red, let’s get on with it.

It takes seven hours just to empty the place of, well, everything. It’s almost fun, even, finishing clearing every room, dusting, polishing, sorting through what’s trash and what’s worth keeping.

Hannah salvages as much as she can, and Charlie drops silently next to her and helps her put things in boxes as she cleans and clears. They smile at each other, like it’s private, but Dean and Cas just smile at each other. It’s about damn time.

Enthusiasm ain’t everything, though, and Anna easily caps a budget to make the place liveable, and it ain’t cheap. “I can’t afford this, Anna,” Cas murmurs, “Even Zachariah’s not willing to cover this much up, he’d just send me… away.”

Everyone gets real quiet and Hannah pulls Cas to the kitchen where they talk a little more in private. She’s hiding it really well, but Dean knows she’s equal parts pissed and worried that Cas told him instead of her about this, but Dean also knows for a fact that he wouldn’t’ve known unless he’d been there to witness it himself. Cas just doesn’t know when (or how, probably) to reach out. He can identify with that a bit.

Jo’s the first to say something, “Can we stop? Not that this isn’t my ideal Friday night but, I think we need food and sitting asap or else we’re all gonna snap.”

Grumbles of agreement and a few clicks on Charlie’s laptop later has them chowing down on pepperoni specials and, of course, the latest episode of _Doctor Sexy_. It doesn’t seem remarkable, all of them huddled up in Cas’s room, the only place that was ever really maintained properly, but there’s something about this small group of people that Dean finds comforting. Even Charlie and Hannah aren’t at each others throats anymore, which, really, should’ve taken a minor miracle to sort through. So what comes next shouldn’t really be a shock.

“Guys?” Cas says, and everyone just kinda quiets themselves, not paying attention to the show even as it burbles on, “I’m… I’m trans.”

Charlie kinda furrows her brow and doesn’t say anything except snuggling even further into Cas’s middle. Dean can’t see, but he knows without a doubt that Anna’s tearing up big time. Hannah obviously knew before but he can see her rubbing Cas’s shoulder out of the corner of his eye.

Dean can feel Jo shift a little next to him, “Uh, Cas, that’s, but, um… fuck, what does, uh, what does that mean?”

Charlie sighs, “It means he’s a dude who happens to have been AFAB.”

“AFAB?” Jo whispers.

Dean can tell when someone needs rescuing from sounding like a jackass, “Assigned female at birth, there’s- I’ll forward you some stuff, okay?”

Jo nods and presses a kiss to the top of Cas’s head, “Okay, man, I love you anyways.”

Dean looks at Cas who’s staring directly at the screen, which only illuminates how happy the guy is. Surrounded by people who love him in a place that’s starting to look like humans live here, eating great food and watching great shows; what more could a guy need?

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the Sunday before school starts up again and it’s par for the course; Sam’s sleepy as hell, which obviously means he’s bein’ a total dope and almost falling asleep in his Cheerio’s. Mary’s home and, despite her annoyance about getting caught up in a fight at school, she’s in a great mood, even humming Zeppelin under her breath, which hasn’t happened in ages. And Dean’s more content than he’s been in weeks, knowing Cas is pretty set up with everything he needs for the next month or so (and they can worry about the month after that later).

So when the mail comes that day, no one’s saying a thing. In fact it’s frustrating, how the tiptoeing can creep a guy out, even with his own damn family. He’s seen the letter. He knows it looks way too thin to be acceptance, and the Columbia seal is subtle but unmistakable. Goddamn. Just as everything seemed to be going okay.

He’s watching Mary make her third batch of waffles when he can’t take it anymore, “No matter how much you feed me, I’ve gotta face the music, Mom.”

Sam and Mary exchange a look, and Dean sighs, (death)marching over to the envelope. If he does this quickly, it’ll be over. He won’t tell a soul that he keeps his eyes screwed shut as he slides his finger under the flap and tears it open.

“‘Dear Mr. Winchester’ well I guess it’s for- oh shit.”

“Dean, honey, it’s okay- ”

“‘Congratulations.’ Mom…. ‘You have been selected for admission to Columbia University in the City of New York- ”

He doesn’t get much further, getting tackled by Mary and Sam at the same time, practically knocking him to the floor, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He’s in. He got in. He’s going to Columbia. Fuck.

“I gotta tell everyone!” he yells, and neither Mary nor Sam stop screaming and whooping, waffles forgotten. Everyone at the diner go just as fuckin’ wild, Ellen declaring free milkshakes for the whole booth, and they’re all happy, they’re happy _for him_ , and Cas is looking a strange mix between smug and elated.

“What’s that face for?”

“I simply called it, that’s all,” he says, and he lightly punches Dean’s shoulder for good measure.

“You wanna go outside, it’s getting kinda cramped in here.”

Cas gets up before Dean does, and Dean _completely ignores_ Charlie’s waggling eyebrows.

“So, New York?” Cas says, his usual eloquent self, when they make it outside. It’s getting warmer now, but it’s still chilly once the sun goes down.

“New York, New York. Hear it’s a helluva town,” Dean quips, and Cas breathes a laugh.

“It’s also very not-Lawrence.”

“Please don’t give me an in to make a Wizard of Oz joke, it’s too easy,” Dean sniggers, but Cas is quiet. Dean hadn’t even really thought that- that Cas wouldn’t be okay about this. “You all right?”

Cas shrugs, “I am very happy for you, Dean.”

Going back into the Roadhouse suddenly seems less claustrophobic than the cool night air they’re breathing, so they do, smiling and laughing and cracking jokes with everyone else. They don’t talk about moving away for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

A week (a _week_ ) back at school and Dean’s already missing the brief absence away from the bullshit lunchtime politics and pointless assignments.

“Why the hell do I need to tell everyone about H.P. Lovecraft’s ideal vacation? SAT’s are coming up, this is so fuckin’ typical of Roy! Ugh, Cas, complain with me, jeez!”

“It’s terrible, it’s boring, it’s easy college credit,” Cas deadpans, and Hannah snorts into her book. “If you’d spend less time whining and more time actually doing it, there’d be less cause for the former.”

“All right, asshole, which side of the bed did your charming self wake up on?”

“The one where I’m always right, I believe. It was a little lumpy this morning.”

Dean actually settles down eventually, but damn, some room for his amateur dramatics would be nice once in a while. He’s almost done (c’mon, Lovecraft would kill for some time in the Bermuda Triangle), when the doorbell goes off. Dean does a head count, knowing anyone who doesn’t have a key is here, and the fact that his house is in the middle of no-where. The bell goes off again and Cas’s head pops up from where he’s crouched over his work.

“I am pretty sure I’ve seen this horror film, Dean. Don’t answer the door unless you’re armed.”

He even looks deadly serious, so Dean picks up his Mom’s trowel and moves quickly to the door. It’s silly, right? He knows this isn’t some hockey-mask-clad serial killer and he’s not about to get sliced and diced for an entrée. Still.

That’s when he sees a familiar, if more stubbled, face at the window. “Benny?”

It’s goddamn Benny. “Long time no see, sugar,” he grins as Dean opens the door and- “Hope ya like carnations.”

It is goddamn Benny. With goddamn carnations at his goddamn _door_. He’s pretty sure this is some kinda weird dream. “Uh- ”

“You don’t call, ya don’t write, I’m big but I’m still susceptible to certain hurts, hon,” and he’s smiling, but the smile’s kinda sad. “Can I come in?”

Before Dean can even open his mouth to say ‘sure’, there’s a much more familiar presence at his side, like guys are appearing all around Dean (now that’s definitely a dream he’s had once or twice) “What business do you have here?” Cas says, all 5’8” of him, pointing his chin up defiantly like he’d even have a chance at taking Benny down.

“Cas, was it?” Benny hums, “Not quite as friendly without some beer down ya, huh?”

“Neither’s Dean,” Cas says, and it’s polite, the words are polite, but there’s an invisible and undeniable snarl to them. He’s all but straight-up peeing on Dean. “Is that all?”

“Yeah, wonderin’ when I’m gonna get to speak for myself here, Cas,” Dean butts in before they friggin’ brawl on their porch. Bad idea, as it turns out, since Cas is about to scorch the carpet with that scowl and Benny’s looking way too pleased with himself. “We can sit out here, dude, c’mon.”

He closes the door behind him and sits on the bench outside, waiting for Benny to join him. “This a nice place you got here.”

“Well, gee, thanks, you gonna buy me a corsage to prom next?”

“And here you are with the attitude, I mean…” Benny rubs his thumb over his hand, “I know we didn’t talk much but- ”

“You mean after you came in my mouth and promised you’d call?” That shuts him up. “It’s fine, I moved on. Not that I’m- fuck, I mean I had a nice time but- but you waited too long, dude,” he waves uselessly at the flowers in those- those big meaty hands, fuck. “Too little, too late and all that.”

Benny nods, looking out over the fields. “Thought you might say that. Was also hopin’ you’d be able to maybe start again?”

It’s tempting. It’s not like the spark isn’t there, jesus, there’s a reason Dean was so willing to go with the guy, to grind on him and wanna… wanna make him feel good. There was something between them that night. And it’s not like Cas is gonna declare _his_ undying love anytime soon, so maybe Dean should be with someone who’s actually attracted to him, more or less. He got him flowers for fuck’s sake. That should count for something, right?

“I can’t, Ben, I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, and it hurts to admit, but it’s true. “There’s someone else.”

“Lemme guess, he’s 90lbs soakin’ wet and got a mouth on ‘im to level Everest?”

Dean ducks his head down. He knows he’s blushing, but hell if he’d let anyone else know. “You understand?”

“‘Course I do. Happens all the time, don’t it?” He hands Dean the flowers, a smile still on that damn lovely face, “If the situation changes though, you let me know.”

He leaves without much circumstance and Dean takes the carnations in to put them in some water. He narrowly avoids Cas who’s practically plastered to the door, and he can feel both his and Hannah’s eyes on him. “What was that about, Dean?”

Dean leans against the kitchen island, setting the vase just right. “Y’know, Cas, it doesn’t matter.”

He sits back down and carries on with his work, trying real hard not to notice the looks that pass between Cas and Hannah for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

Another shitty thing about fucked up schedules is that Dean’s only just noticing assholes he’d managed to pretend didn’t exist for the last four years because study hall’s all mixed up for some reason (clerical errors more like someone dumped too much on poor Fitzgerald in her last year). This also means that Cas is noticing said assholes, and he’s way too easily encouraged by basically nothing.

Uriel. What kinda parents/sadists name their kid Uriel? It’s begging for some serious therapy, and yet Cas can’t shut up about how Uriel said this, that funny thing Uriel said, lots of ‘you had to be there’s and it’s almost more than he can take. It’s even eating into their video-gaming time.

“And so he said, oh god, wait, um, he said it much better, damn- wait, no no don’t you dare release that blue shell!” Cas squeals before returning to his composed self, still in second place, “Dammit. So anyways, Uriel- ”

“He’s a douche, I don’t even know why you like that guy,” Dean butts in, just as he overtakes. It’s a bit too easy, maybe, because Cas has stopped paying too much attention to the race. And it was such a nail-biter too.

“What’s that meant to mean?”

“It means he’s obnoxious, self-righteous and a douche, I dunno what to tell you, man,” Dean plays it off like it’s nothing, but clearly the way Cas is ramming his car into Dean’s, it’s not nothing.

“I can like who I like, Dean.”

He knows the words aren’t kind but it’s like he’s outside of his own body and he can’t hold his damn tongue. “Clearly not, Michael was a train wreck, and who knows how many other guys you’ve not even gone for. This town is a pit dude, no wonder you’ve got bad taste.”

“Perhaps that also extends to friends,” he bites and it’s a little too close to home. It must show on his face (and the screen; he goes careening into a pyramid he’s so distracted) because Cas pauses the game and immediately clutches Dean like death. “Oh god, wait, I didn’t mean- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“I should know when to shut up,” he mumbles into Cas’s shoulder.

“Dean, I’m sorry, I’m just so- pent up. I’m sorry, that wasn’t all right, at all,” Cas claws at Dean’s back, “I don’t want us to fight and I- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Dean doesn’t let go, of Cas or this golden opportunity to just be in his arms and not feel guilty about it, about taking it. It’s nice.

“You’re okay, Cas, you’re okay.”

Dean’s not, though. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. Almost seems like New York’s coming at the perfect time. He’s stood in front of Cas’s romantic happiness for long enough. 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s mint chocolate shakes all round when they’re at the Roadhouse, celebrating yet another one of its clan’s success. “MIT better get ready for Bradbury!” Anna whoops.

“They’re not going to know what hit them,” Hannah agrees, licking her minty moustache off without really looking. “Has Charlie seemed off to any of you?”

They look around at each other, “A little,” Anna admits, “but I figured that was happy nerves doin’ its thing, she hasn’t talked about college since- y’know.”

“Guys, shut up, stealth mode,” Dean mutters, sucking the straw a little too hard, “Ah, fuck, brain freeze!”

Charlie sidles up just in time, but instead of making a perfectly set-up joke, she just sits down next to Hannah and seems to contemplate before resting her head on Hannah’s shoulder.

“Hey, you, uh, you okay, Charlie?”

“Kinda weird,” she says, her brow scrunching a little.

“Look, dude, it’s not like we’re gonna forget about you,” Dean assures her.

Cas nods in agreement, “We’ll keep in touch, indulge in regular Skype sessions.”

“Whatever it is,” Hannah says slowly, “we can help. That’s what you said, right?”

“Hmm,” Charlie contributes, “yeah, just, um,” she breathes out in a little whoosh, “Dad died this morning.”

The room is suddenly devoid of air and that’s the one thing none of them can do anything about.


	20. spielberg, eat your heart out

Dean’s been to three funerals in his life; his dad’s, Grandpa Samuel and now Charlie’s dad. Out of all those men, Cal was by far the best father, even if that wasn’t saying too much. Fact is, Dean hasn’t stopped crying since he got to his seat, and they’ve been sat for a damn long while. He’s sat at the front in the most uncomfortable white chairs he’s ever sat in, stifling sobs and trying really fucking hard not to make a scene, so his shoulders are shaking. He’s got an earthquake in his bones and he’s gotta hide it. For Charlie, for Gertrude, for Cal. He’s not doing a very good job, but luckily no one’s focused on him.

Gertrude stands to the side with Cal’s brother and their family. Apparently they hadn’t spoken since Cal changed his name, but here he is sobbing just as hard. Dean gets a weird shiver through him as he thinks about how Sam would act at his funeral. He doesn’t even consider the opposite.

Cal’s brother takes his turn reciting Kaddish, although no one can really hear him. That’s okay, though. Funerals are for the people left behind, and that’s okay. Dean keeps his mouth shut and reads along in English in his head as the congregation follow on.

“…אמן יהא שמה רבא, איש״ר…”

The kippah feels heavy on his head, and he tries to focus on the wet grass under his shiny, too-tight dress shoes. Charlie’s favourite shirt is torn at the collar and her chin’s high so as not to let it wobble. He can’t believe how strong she is. It’s not even his father that’s freshly buried and he can barely keep it together. Anna’s hand grips his tightly and she keeps it in his lap, her face just as tear-stained. She’s probably gonna crack a joke later about waterproof mascara and the wonders of modern make-up technology, but right now her eyes are too big and her face is too twisted.

Cas and Hannah sit on their row, a couple down from Mary and Sam, who’re similarly solemn. Sam’s looking down into his lap and breathing very evenly, like he usually does when he’s trying to be mature and responsible. His feet don’t even touch the ground. Mary twists John’s ring around her finger incessantly, like the skin’s gonna break.

He remembers one bit of Hebrew Charlie taught him before when they were driving up here (her tight-lipped, him almost silent) as he catches up with the rest of the congregation, “…בָּרוּךְ שְׁמוֹ, ב״ש…”

The blur of time between the end of the ceremony and the mitzvah almost knocks Dean on his ass, and if he’s truly honest he’s waiting until he can sneak Charlie some vodka and let her cry somewhere safe and familiar. She’s barely spoken to anyone beyond ‘thank you’s and Hebrew that sounds perfectly fluent. Gertrude looks more serene than he’s ever known. He didn’t even know her face could look like that; so resigned. Anger and vibrancy and humour all ironed out to leave behind a greeting smile emptier than the refreshments table.

Dean’s time comes finally when the last virtually-unknown relative leaves at midnight, and Gertrude gives them both a tired smile. “Think I might, um…” she trails off. She looks around the house, her fingers brushing against the mantlepiece where all the pictures are face down. Dean reckons it’s a good thing all the mirrors are covered; she probably wouldn’t recognise herself.

Charlie’s voice breaks the stagnant silence, “Mom? You wanna go to bed?”

Gertrude hums, like she might, but she just walks through into the kitchen and sits at the table. She leans her head on her palm, propped up like she’s not real anymore. Charlie runs upstairs without another word and Gertrude stays at the table, barely moving.

Dean takes a moment to sit in the chair beside her and hold her hand, her expression staying the same. “You need anything?”

“Could you get my husband to be not dead, sweetheart?” she asks like she’s asking for a cup of coffee, extra cream. Dean breathes out heavily.

“‘Fraid not. I’m kinda useless, I guess,” he tries, “Could I get you some water?”

“No, honey,” she says pulling her hand away.

He gets up, kissing the top of her head and goes to find Charlie.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” he keeps his tone upbeat, “see any UFO’s yet?”

Charlie sits by the window in Cal’s study, the big one where you can see the most stars. Dean knows he’s gonna miss the stars when he moves to Columbia but he’s not thinking about that right now. Charlie’s doing that silent-crying thing, the thing she does before the all-out breakdown. “Why’re you still here, Dean?”

“Please, like I’m gonna leave you like this,” he scoffs. “Who was there to help me sad-eat all those fuckin’ casseroles when John kicked it?”

“Sam,” she chokes.

“And _you_ , dumbass.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to call me dumbass at shivah, dumbass,” she’s sniffing and smiling a little bit.

He sidles next to her and makes her move for him, “Never told me what your dad’s story was, anyway.”

“Because… because it’s all my fault.”

She hasn’t mentioned the accident since she found out, but it was only a matter of time, “Charlie, no- ”

“No, I- I’m not talkin’ about the cra- the… thing,” she wipes her nose on her sleeve, “He did everything because of me.”

“Back up, you wanna help me out here? Because Cal was, like, the freakin’ best, he was happy, so if that’s your fault…”

“Bachman. That was his name before he changed it. Because his family wanted him to have strapping young boys, and- and then I came along and fucked everything up. So he cut ties with his _real_ family and abandoned his faith and community and it’s all- ” she cuts herself off, making herself even smaller. Her shirt’s still torn. “He wanted this funeral, wanted a proper funeral, and- and he didn’t even see his brother, and it’s…”

She buries her head in Dean’s side, her shoulders shaking so much Dean briefly thinks she might shake apart. “Charlie…”

“And I had to learn Hebrew off the internet! How fucking pathetic…”

“You’re not pathetic…”

She’s screaming now, “I’m such a shitty daughter, Dean, I fucked this all up, I fucked everything up, and I’m never gonna be able to tell him that! I’m never gonna be able to say I’m sorry, I’m never gonna tell him how much I- _fuck!_ ”

Dean strokes her hair and lets her cry some more and feels his chest concave as she almost loses her breath a few times, hiccupping over her sobs. “You’re not a shitty daughter, and- okay, you might not be able to tell him all that, like, directly, but… Charlie, you’re gonna do so many awesome things. You’re gonna make him proud, no matter what. I know it.”

She stills for a moment, and rumples his shirt under her hand. “You wanna hear some stories about him?”

He settles in, “Start from the top.”

She tells him Cal’s story, growing up a nice Jewish boy from Idaho, all the stories of his hijinks (which mostly consisted of his library trips and blushing; dude was a total nerd, just like his daughter). They laugh over Gertrude choosing to call him Werner all the time, even if he hated his middle name. There’s some more crying intermittently, of course, and Dean stays through all of it. Dean always will, even if by this time next year he’ll be thousands of miles away.

 

* * *

 

It’s unnaturally quiet when he gets in around nine the next morning, Mary sitting in her chair in the living room biting her nails to the quick the only noise audible. She looks up at him like a deer in the headlights. “You’re home,” she checks her watch, “La- hmm… early?”

“Charlie.”

“Ah.”

“Sammy okay?”

“In his room.”

For a really incredible doctor, his mom deals with death very strangely. S’pose minor nervous breakdowns aren’t TV-ready enough for _Doctor Sexy_. He checks his watch, “Shift soon?”

“Got about twenty minutes before I’ve gotta…” she snaps her fingers weirdly.

He pads up the stairs and pokes his head in before he realises Sam’s just curled up under the covers and shivering. Dean’s over the comforter in an instant.

“Sammy? Sam, you okay?” Dean’s already worried, it’s an instinctual thing.

“I… Dean, what- what was dad like?”

Well. That’s comin’ out of the goddamn leftist field. Dean puts an arm around Sam, the little bump he makes underneath his duvet. “He, uh… he was a complicated guy, Sam…”

Sam looks up at him, sniffing his bunged-up nose unsuccessfully, “Was he unhappy?”

“I don’t know, dude, I was- I was pretty young too…” Dean trails off, but Sam’s persistent.

“But you can tell, sometimes, right?” He shifts in Dean’s arms, restless. He had no idea how much the funeral had affected Sam, but now he’s unprepared to talk about John. He’s never really- they don’t talk about the guy. Ever.

“Sam, I know you’re upset- ”

“No, Dean, I’m upset because I never wanna go to another funeral for a person I care about and you spend hours in your room doin’ nothing! Because sometimes you get too sad, or too panicky, or too quiet, and Google exists!” He’s sitting up and hissing at Dean, angry enough to tell him all this, but knowing this is the exact type of thing neither of them want Mary knowing, “You think I don’t remember what happened three years ago? That I can’t see this- thing you’re hiding?! I’m not stupid, Dean, I see things, and I can’t- can’t lose you, too!”

He winds himself around Dean like a fuckin’ viper and shoves his head under Dean’s chin. Dean instinctively rubs Sam’s back and tries to just stare at a particular point in the wall. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t feel anything but Sam crying under his palm. He hasn’t seen Sam like this since- well, since three years ago.

Dean hears Mary heading upstairs and as she walks past Sam’s room, she sees them both. She stares from the doorway, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she mouths to Dean, ‘he okay?’

He nods, assurance painted on easily, and she waits a second, as if she can tell he’s lying, before moving and getting ready. When she leaves and Sam feels better, Dean continues on automatic, frying up some eggs and playing Best Big Brother until he can get to his room and play out his cliché symptoms/ignore them.

 

* * *

 

Normality is, oddly enough, difficult to resume after someone’s died, even if they’re all meeting up at the Roadhouse and trying to pretend everything’s Fine™. Everyone’s even gotten disgusting mint chocolate milkshakes in solidarity, except Charlie hasn’t even touched her’s. It’s stale and awful and no one knows what to say to one another.

Anna clicks her fingernails against the table until Hannah gives her a scathing look to stop. Cas leans on the windowsill, sneaking glances at Charlie constantly, like he’s some kinda spy. He is the very opposite of sneaky. Hannah hasn’t let go of Charlie’s hand once. Jo’s blowing off her papers to hang out with everyone, but it seems like… something’s brewing, bad-style, between her and Anna. It’s seriously off-putting, especially with everything so tense.

“We could play a game?” Jo pipes up, clearly trying to be upbeat for everyone. It’s just doesn’t seem like the time, but no one’s telling her, at least out loud, to stop. Well, Anna’s rolling her eyes, but that’s par for the course lately.

“I’ll bite, what game?” Dean throws out his life-ring and Jo brightens a little.

“Uh- word replacement game?”

Cas snorts, “The butthole game?”

“The butthole game,” Jo confirms.

“Okay, I’ll start,” Dean shifts in his seat, a little too excited for something to actually be happening, “Indiana Jones and the Butthole of Doom.”

Charlie laughs out loud at that, and everyone’s so startled, including Charlie, that it’s silent for a bit. She looks at all of them, pushing her shake to the side, and grins. “Star Wars: A New Butthole.”

The game’s addictive, everyone starting to shout over each other.

“It’s a Wonderful Butthole,” Cas offers, his eyes crinkling a little (fucking fuck-)

Hannah blushes, “Schindler’s Butthole.” (That one gets a few sharp inhales and other cackle from Charlie).

“2001: A Butthole Odyssey,” Dean gets a few howls for that one.

“Harry Potter and the Chamber of Buttholes,” Jo tries, and people groan rather than laugh, except Anna’s kinda sniggering. “Seriously? Think you can do better?”

“You know I can,” Anna mimics her voice and it’s… not so fun all of a sudden.

“C’mon, guys- ”

“No, it’s fine, Anna Snootyface thinks she can slum it better, whatever,” Jo gets up and just walks outside, Anna’s face falling as her back is turned. The door to the Roadhouse slams and everyone looks very pointedly at Anna.

“What the hell did you two get up to?” Dean starts, but Anna’s already up and following Jo outside.

They both seem to be forgetting the fact that the Roadhouse has windows as they have it out in the parking lot. Charlie frowns at them. “Uh-oh.”

Dean points at them, “You know anything about this?”

“Only a little. Hopefully no hair-pulling goes on,” she muses.

They all watch, Dean _maybe_ leaning a little too close to Cas - so close he can tell that he’s used a mango shower gel today, fuck - as Anna and Jo fight. There’s no audio, but the general gist seems to be a shouting theme. Lots and lots of shouting. Also hand gestures to take any surrounding passersby’s eye out. It’s best they’re behind glass.

Until suddenly they’re not fighting and-

“Holy shit, are you- ”

“They’re not- ”

Hannah looks at them all, squinting, “No one saw this from a mile away?”

Anna and Jo are (finally) making the fuck out right up against a very unwashed Honda. Dean and Charlie whoop and high-five, and Cas’s smile is so wide his face might crack.

When the two love-birds come back in everyone (and seriously, everyone; cannot stress enough how much the Roadhouse have windows) (or how boring Lawrence, Kansas is) cheers. Ellen comes out of the kitchen to see what all the commotion’s about to see Jo holding Anna’s hand, her face as red as Anna’s hair. Ellen puts her hands on her hips and really looks at the two of them.

“Well. It’s about damn time.”

They smile at each other and endure endless ribbing for the rest of the night. Yet, Dean can’t help but look at Cas and feel his chest tighten a little.

 

* * *

 

Dean has not had any time this semester to actually take Baby out for a drive, so he makes some damn time for her. It’s really, truly disrespectful how much he’s neglected her, but as he rumbles along to pick Cas up (for… company), feeling her under him is something he’s missed more than anything.

“Yo, Novak, get your butt down here!” he shouts up to Cas’s window.

Cas hurries out, allowing himself to wear a rare two layers thanks to his new binder. Dean mocks scandalised. “I do declare, Mr Novak, isn’t that rather skimpy attire!”

Cas looks down at himself and tilts his head, “It’s eighty degrees, Dean, and I’m still wearing jeans.”

“Ah, whatever, get in.”

They drive past the golden cornfields, right out into the middle of no where, just letting the radio play and letting their minds float on nothing in particular. It’s nice, this quiet, this patience in the air. Dean is never this calm with anyone else and- and New York is so loud and far away.

“Dude, are we, uh, gonna be okay?” Dean asks, breaking the comfortable softness in the car.

Cas smiles, but it’s too small, it’s not stretching obscenely across his face like it’s meant to, “Of course, Dean.”

It’s not a satisfying answer, but Dean doesn’t want to push, he really doesn’t wanna worry Cas unnecessarily. He’s had enough of putting his foot in his mouth, and he loves the easiness between them. There’s something that tells him it won’t be this easy at Columbia. “I don’t- what if I don’t find anyone as nerdy as you to hang out with?”

He gets a snort for his troubles, but forges onwards anyway, “Dean, please.”

“I’m serious, dude,” Dean implores, “No other guy gets me like you- oh god, that sounded corny as fuck, but you get what I mean.”

“Ah, yes, I get it like no other guy can, right?” Cas teases, and Dean really (really) loves the guy, but he also hates his scrawny ass.

“Fine, whatever, eat me,” Dean grumbles, and Cas laughs, real this time, finally.

They’re quiet for a little while longer until Cas speaks. “I hadn’t been to funeral since my mother died.”

Dean’s knuckles whiten, “W-when was…?”

“I was around eight or nine… it was a fuzzy period.”

“Got it,” Dean says, urging Cas wordlessly to continue.

Cas just shuffles in his seat and clears his throat, the music turned down lower, “It was an intensely formal affair, is all I remember. They did not respect my mother’s wishes for the service at all.”

“How come?”

“They did not think it was appropriate to have her casket lowered while AC/DC’s acclaimed anthem ‘Highway to Hell’ played at full volume.”

Dean nearly swerves into the cornfield he’s laughing so much, “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Cas smiles into his lap, his fingers twisting around each other, “she was certainly a character,” he continues, “she wanted us all to donate $10 to a charity and wear at least three different colours. Oh! And there was something about a disco ball somewhere…”

They’re both laughing too much to continue, until Dean’s wiping his tears away as the atmosphere settles down. “Sounds like an incredible lady.”

“Yes,” Cas muses, “a much braver person than I.”

Dean slows down, “Cas, don’t.”

“Dean, I’m not- she was my favourite person, and she inspired me to be myself. She wasn’t a walking gender-specific encyclopaedia like some,” he smirks and elbows Dean lightly, “but she knew I was… different. She always let me pick my own clothes, even going so far as to burn some articles when Zachariah brought them around.”

“Cas, you’re- you’re the bravest person I know.”

Cas gets quiet, twisting his cardigan in his hands, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What would you say?”

“That we all live with our demons. I simply know how to manage mine in public.”

“Am I public?”

His mouth gapes a little, “I don’t really know what you are, Dean. Except auspiciously considerate and quiescent.”

Dean’s laugh is a sawed-off shotgun, “Fuck off thesaurus rex.”

“I’ve always found the idea of jurassic regency unlikely,” Cas says, like it’s some kinda fuckin’ academic observation, the asshole.

Dean goes along with it, like the sucker he is, “What’s more likely then? A meritocracy?”

“More like a wild west setting. Tyrannosaurus Eastwood.”

“Gun-slinging raptors, huh? Spielberg, eat your heart out,” Dean grins as they speed up down the dusty roads.

The drive stretches well into the night, through truly imaginative variations of the butthole game and heated arguments about the merits/failures of 80’s reboots. When Dean drops Cas off at home, they sit in the car for a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

“Thank you for the drive, it was lovely,” Cas says, and his voice is low.

"Can I come in?"

Cas doesn't look panicked very often, but that's real sweat that's just broken out on his hairline, "Um, I- No."

He doesn’t look at Dean as he quickly puts his hand over Dean’s, squeezes it, then gets out of the car like his ass is on fire. Dean looks out after him, slamming the door behind him, and can’t help but wonder what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i have not been to a Jewish funeral since i was seven (thank goodness???) so i used that plus gratuitous research, but if there are any horridious inaccuracies, PLEASE LET ME KNOW! okay i love y'all, enjoy!


	21. sleeping together

It really shouldn’t be weird between him and Cas, and yet Dean still can’t get Cas’s face out of his brain from the day before. It’s probably nothing or something’s wrong and Cas isn’t telling him. Oh fuck, maybe Cas knows. Maybe Cas is just up and running away to join the army. Maybe Cas is in a cult and he’s been trying to secretly communicate through bees that he needs help except Dean’s been too busy with his head up his ass and his eyes set to Cas’s lips that he hasn’t noticed, fuck, he’s such an idiot-

He doesn’t get much further than that when the doorbell rings, accompanied by seven distinct knocks.

“Honey, can you get that? Cas is here!” Mary calls from downstairs and Dean has never moved faster in his life.

He opens the door to find Cas, his face smeared with a little bit of… icing sugar? “I hope you enjoy pumpkin,” Cas deadpans as he shoves the covered baking tin towards Dean. It’s still warm, too.

“Dude, you made pie?”

“Evidently.”

He ushers Cas in and sets the pie down on the kitchen island, turning back a little too quickly (you can get whiplash from social situations, right?) to find Cas a lot closer than he was a second ago. And Dean’s having trouble looking away.

“You got, um, on your- ”

Cas tilts his head and Dean really can’t help himself when the guy looks all scrunched up and grumpy like that, fuck. He’s almost experiencing it all outside of his own body, his thumb coming up to cradle Cas’s jaw and smear the sugar off his face, Cas’s breath hitching a little, and neither of them making eye contact. Dean’s entirely focused on the brush of Cas’s skin under his thumb and Cas seems to be hypnotised by the inside of his eyelids.  

“Is that pie I smell?” Sam yells from like, five feet away, dude, and Dean basically shoots through the roof. When he returns to earth, Cas doesn’t look like he’s much better. They finally look at each other and Dean laughs it off, almost letting the pie slip off the worktop before Mary swoops in and saves it.

She smirks at the two of them, “Honestly, boys, watch my tiles.”

Luckily Cas possesses the wherewithal to actually reanimate and help Mary with setting up the table for brunch.

“Didn’t know you were comin’ over, Cas,” Dean mumbles around some weirdly not-sub-par mackerel and green beans.

He can see Sam wiggling his eyebrows (not even subtle, c’mon) in his periphery, “Ah, yes, it was a little impromptu, but Mary insisted since, um…”

“Sweetheart, please, you’re part of the family.”

Sam chimes it, so sweetly, “Yeah, doofus, plus this pie is _amazing._ ”

“Samuel John Winchester, keep your paws off that until you’ve finished your beans!”

Dean gets his own back by smearing whipped cream on Sam’s nose a little later, but when everyone’s a little sleepy and super full from some truly awesome pie (not helping, to be honest), Mary gets a lot nosier.

“So, Cas,” Cas pops his head up from where he’s leaned back on the rocking chair on the porch, nodding drowsily to let her know he’s listening, “you got a little girlfriend we don’t know about?”

“ ** _Mom!_** ” Sam and Dean groan/bleat in unison.

Cas just lets his lip curl up, and says in a low mock-Southern drawl, “Why, Ms Winchester, are you propositionin’ me?”

They both, horrifyingly, have the same sense of humour (they’re both sniggering like a couple of kids, honestly) and while Sam’s rolling his eyes hard enough to get a whiff of the fourth dimension, Dean’s just trying hard not to bend the frail teaspoon in his grip. And it has NOTHING to do with that… weird thing Cas did with his voice. And he just needs to adjust himself a little, fuck, he’s only human.

After they’re done laughing (not even that funny, yeesh), Cas sighs, “I’m afraid there aren’t many girls that would attach themselves to me.”

Dean inwardly calls absolute bullshit, but then he’s him, he has no idea what the tasteless girls in this town want. Realistically, 67% are probably still hung up on Charlie.

This, of course, is when Mary friggin’ angel/demon Winchester tries her hand at faux-casual, an endeavour not a single person in the Winchester or Campbell clan is remotely capable of. “What about… a boyfriend?”

Thing is, Cas is as liberal as they come; he believes in free speech, that people have the right to be themselves, to be out and proud, no matter what their creed, sexuality, gender, really anything else that makes up a person, is. He wants to live in a world where he can proudly tell whomever he wants about the fact that he is a dude who (in this marvellous future where transition isn’t so fucking expensive) once had a vagina, and anyone who doesn’t like that can damn well deal with it. He wants a lot of things. Reality being as it actually is, he also knows the power of discretion and the necessity of survival. He knows that nice people can be horridly bigoted, and caution is for those that want to live to see that world. Lawrence, Kansas isn’t all pitchforks and torches, but it’s funny how important biology and the Bible are the minute you let them know you aren’t what they assumed you are. So, here comes the sheer fact that Cas has no idea what Mary Winchester actually thinks about gay people, and this proposition could, indeed, be a total trap.

“I, uh, what is?”

Dean clears his throat , “Mom, I think CSI’s on.”

“The new one?”

Dean pretends to check his phone, “Uh, yeah, nine on the dot, right?”

She nearly leaves a dust outline she’s back inside so fast, and Cas lets out a big breath.

Sam squints at the two of them, “Are you two dating, or something? What gives?”

At that, Cas scoffs (which, hey!) and shakes his head, “He wishes.”

What. What? WHAT. “Heh, you- you wish. That.” Play it cool, goddamn.

Cas looks at over at Dean like he’s forgotten something vital, “Well, first off, Dean doesn’t ‘swing that way’, as he has said multiple times, and he’s moving to New York, so a relationship at this point would be deeply unwise.”

That… that’s a little tough to swallow (no, not like that). Maybe more like earth-shattering. “Yeah, but, I’d be the best boyfriend, though,” Dean protests, a little pathetically. Sam’s shoving more pie into his face like this is some kinda spectator sport, the little traitor.

“Oh, really?” Cas teases.

“Hell yeah. I’d… give back rubs and foot rubs, with no funny business required,” he starts, and Cas looks more than intrigued, so why the fuck not indulge a little in this fantasy? No one’s gonna believe him anyway, “Okay, so that would be when you’d get home from class or work, having slaved away in the studio all day, and you’d be like, ‘oh Dean, I hate blah blah blah, why is everyone so ignorant?’”

A high blush reddens Cas’s cheeks, “I do not sound like that!”

Sam’s nearly choking on his pie, “Dude, you totally do.”

“Anyway, so we’d put on some crappy movie and I’d listen to you complain about everything, and then the cat would probably spear you on your lap- ”

“We have a cat in this hypothetical scenario?” Cas sounds incredulous, “With your allergies?”

“I’d tough it out, because I… am the best boyfriend ever.”

“Keep going, this is great blackmail material!” Sam chuckles, but he’s probably zoning out due to overstuffing himself, so it’s just him and Cas.

“You’d get to stroke the cat while we, um, probably do some kissing stuff,” Cas seems to snort at the phrasing, but otherwise he looks completely enthralled, “and I’d probably rag you about stuff because we’re not exactly the Brady’s, but I- I would make really good chicken carbonara, and maybe go to sushi-making classes, because, hey, it’s New York, and- and, um, you’d like my cooking and we’d have leftover pie all the time for when we’re feeling lazy and poor, and we’d write and art it up- oh! There’s a skylight!”

“There’s a skylight,” Cas repeats, his voice a little raw.

“Yeah, to let the light in, and you’ve painted on every available surface in the apartment, and there are plants everywhere too, and we argue over stupid stuff and real stuff, and we discuss important stuff and pointless stuff, and we watch terrible movies because they’re awesome, and we dictate hate mail to Michael Bay, and we’re just- us. And we’re…” he swallows, “we’re just happy, man.”

“Oh,” Cas says quietly, “sounds like… like you’ve thought it through.”

“Nah,” Dean lies, “just on the spot, because I’d be _such_ a good boyfriend.”

“I applied to colleges,” Cas blurts, wiping his nose a little. “Not in Lawrence, though.”

“Figured you’d have more sense than that,” Dean breathes. “Where?”

“New York,” Cas starts, “but the one I can actually afford with… well, no money, is Michigan. It’s really nice there, and Anna’s going there. I can enrol anytime, basically, it’s very, um flexible.”

“Illustration?”

“Foundation, but maybe branching into illustration later,” Cas puffs a little, “maybe once I’ve made some more money than, well, zero.”

“Cas- ”

“I think I might head upstairs, brush my teeth,” Cas interrupts. He brushes his fingers through Sam’s long locks, the sweetest smile on his face when Sam breaks out with the most disgusting snore, “see you in a bit.”

 

* * *

 

When Dean’s spitting into the sink later that night, he sees his bedside light still on, and he hears Cas sniffing. He wipes his mouth and stomps in to see Cas furiously wiping his glasses of tears. As soon as he catches sight of Dean, he points accusingly at him.

“You,” he growls/sobs, “you complete asshole. I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said to you.”

“You got to the part where the Smith dies, didn’tcha?”

“HOW COULD YOU?” Cas hisses, not very intimidating with his thick glasses and Dean’s laptop most likely burning a scar onto his soft tummy. Dean doesn’t actually know for certain whether or not Cas has a truly soft tummy, but he does in his fantasies, so that’s good enough for him.

Dean giggles as he falls onto his airbed on the floor, “Had to do it, man.”

For his troubles he gets smacked in the face with his softest pillow, which, paired with the hard strength that Cas has, it’s actually kinda painful, “You are the author, you most certainly did not have to kill off my favourite character!”

That can’t possibly be right, “Out of all the cool characters I’ve created, you like the friggin’ Smith? Why? What? Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Cas counters, crossing his arms. Oh god, he’s ready for battle, then.

Dean forges on anyway, “Well, for starters he didn’t even exist until more recently, and he’s a horny asshole who’s only out for himself. He wouldn’t do anything for anyone unless it benefits him.”

“I disagree, if anything he’s the most selfless character yet.”

“Oh, more selfless than JIT-18?”

“JIT-18 is sweet, but simple,” Cas joins Dean on the airbed, sliding down effortlessly and pushing his glasses up on his nose (so adorable, god fucking _damn_ it), “The Smith, however, is someone that arcs _terrifically._ He starts out as a being of serious power who seems to take pleasure in only peddling, but it’s the interaction he craves, obviously! All that faux-misanthrope is to protect himself, and rightfully so; he’s been hurt too much to have to put up with anything more. And frankly, James gives him a cause, something to break the monotony with. And it’s not like they don’t motivate each other. If it weren’t for James, the Smith would never’ve gotten off his ass and been all he could be, and if it weren’t for the Smith, James would’ve never found someone to live for. How can you even need anymore proof other than what happened on Berrenkh’Al 12?”

“You realise they’re _my_ characters, right?”

“Oh please, you don’t understand them like I do,” Cas grunts, but they’re smiling ear to ear. Dean doubts he’d ever have as good an audience as Cas. “Please bring him back.”

Dean’s militant, “No can do,” is not what Cas wants to hear.

“Then I stand by my previous statement, that of you being the worst,” Cas sulks, but even for their usual book-banter, he doesn’t seem very up.

“Dude, everything okay?”

“Fine,” Cas says slowly, “except for, well, maybe I wish I had a Smith of my own,” he says more quietly. Dean’s back bristles like a spooked cat.

“You, uh, what?”

“If I had someone that cared about me the same way the Smith cares- ugh, car _ed_ about James, maybe- ” Cas looks at a particular point in the ceiling, like that’s gonna make Dean let go of whatever this is.

“Maybe what?” Dean’s getting more concerned by the second.

Cas climbs back onto Dean’s bed, “It’s nothing, really.”

Dean joins him, “C’mon, Cas, you gotta tell me now, my curiosity’s killing me.”

He rubs his shoulders quickly, despite the room being a lot warmer than the rest of the house, “There is… this person.”

“God, vague it up man, these overwhelming details are killing me here,” Dean drawls, for which he gets another pillow in the face, “Dude!”

“Okay, fine. There’s this guy that I… sort of maybe like a little, but he’s also… clingy.”

Dean’s not proud of how quickly he rushes out: “Clingy how, clingy what way? What’s he look like, can I take ‘im?”

Cas looks very unimpressed, but Dean really truly doesn’t care about that right now, “He just… is flirty with me, and maybe crowds me a little? It’s not a ‘big deal’, Dean, no need to fly choppers in just yet.”

“Can I get at least a name?”

“Balthazar.”

“What a fucking stupid name,” Dean barks a laugh, “that’s not a name, that’s a goddamn line of designer socks.”

“Thank you, as always, for your sensitivity, Dean,” Cas scowls, turning on his side.

Dean pulls him over and shoves him in the arm, “Just… tryin’ to look out for you, man.”

Cas finally smiles at him a little, “Okay. Good night, Dean.”

Dean shuffles off and onto the airbed, snuggling under the mountain of blankets, “Night, man.”

He doesn’t get to sleep until he hears Cas’s breathing evening out a few minutes later.

 

* * *

 

It’s a beautiful Tuesday afternoon and Cas has been staying at his since Saturday. The weather’s perfect, he’s going to his dream school, two of his best friends got together and he found a penny on the ground yesterday. He should be ecstatic, right?

Except watching Anna and Jo very un-sneakily get back from the bathroom totally jams his should-be-good mood solidly at ‘really can’t be bothered with any of this life shit’. They sit back down, completely ruffled, like they aren’t completely obvious.

“Huh, the, uh, the queue to the bathroom was really long- ”

“You took fifteen minutes,” Dean deadpans.

Hannah notes, “Anna has two new hickeys.”

“You stink of sex, guys,” Charlie breaks it to them.

They both pretend to be outraged, turning to Cas like he needs to tell everyone else off. He takes one look at them and shrugs. “You’re wearing each other’s shirts, and Jo, I believe you’re wearing Anna’s backwards.”

Jo blushes up a storm while Anna sighs then just leans back, happy as the cat that got the cream. “Yeah, well, making up for lost time, I guess.”

“Ugh,” Dean says, “I’m gonna go outside, get some of these damn pheromones off me.”

He doesn’t want to be in a weird mood, but things have been weirdly building up and he doesn’t have anywhere to blow off that extra steam. He’s a coffee pot ready to burn up and get thrown away for ruining everything. Not… a perfect analogy, but whatever, he’s just pissed at everything right now. Standing outside the back of the Roadhouse kitchen, getting a little lost in the incoherent noise coming from inside is just fine right now. Until he gets company, of course.

“Dean?”

Not who he was expecting, to be honest, “Hannah, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She stands by him, clearly wrinkling her nose at the smell of fish-heads. “I was wondering if I could pick your brain about some things.”

“Do these things have bright red hair and a preternatural gift for technology?” Dean guesses.

Judging by how she scuffs her perfectly-shined shoes against the gravel, that’s a yes. “Have you, um, spoken much since the funeral?”

“Not about you, sorry,” Dean answers, because they might as well cut to the chase, and he likes to think he knows Hannah pretty well by now. She prefers when people dispense with the bullshit and just get on with it.

She hums, “That makes sense.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Not to be crude, but we do engage in intercourse rather regularly,” damn, okay, tmi much? “And if she needs me to be there for her in any way, I would, of course, oblige,” she turns to him, “but that is not why I’d wish to speak with you, Dean.”

When she seems to wait for him to actually acknowledge the request, he nods, “Okay, then why?”

“I would like to know if she is in love with anybody else,” she says simply.

“Anybody else? You implyin’ what I think you’re implyin’?”

Hannah smiles, a little privately to herself, “I know that she loves me, Dean, I can tell that much. I feel it, so to speak- ”

“Dude, _stop_ telling me about your sex life.”

She _tsks_ at him. “It’s not always about sex, Dean. I simply… know her.”

Regardless of her methods, Dean somewhat admires Hannah. She’s straight-forward. When she’s certain about something, she’s a dog with a bone. Not a lot of people like that. “Never, under pain of death, tell her I told you this, but…” he puts his hand out for her to shake, “you’re probably the best girl that’s ever happened to her.”

Hannah nods sharply and takes his hand, shaking it firmly twice. “Thank you, Dean.”

When they go back inside, Cas is beaming at Dean. “You missed the most hilarious thing, Dean, listen- ”

He does listen, but while he does he notices how Hannah is with Charlie. He notices how open she is, how she seeks out Charlie’s hand without fear of rejection, how she smiles at her with every muscle in her face. Despite everything, she’s unafraid to love who she loves. Must be nice.

 

* * *

 

Much, much later that night, Dean finds himself tossing and turning on what is possibly the most uncomfortable air mattress in history. Worse than that, every time he moves, he squeaks and scrapes against the rubber, which is probably keeping Cas awake, and they have English the next day, so this is unbelievably terrible timing.

After the fifteenth repositioning in as many minutes, Cas finally hisses into the dark, “Dean! Just fucking get up here already, good god!”

Dean freezes, “Sorry, Cas.”

“The sooner you get up here, the less I’ll punish you,” Cas growls. That sends a real shiver down Dean’s spine, and _wow_ that should so not illicit that kinda response from Dean, it really fucking shouldn’t. And yet-

“All right, all right, bossy,” he whispers, and he clambers up onto- oh _fuck_ , he’d forgotten how good his real mattress feels on his back. He unthinkingly sprawls right across, his arm nearly smacking Cas right in the nose, “Oops, sorry.”

“Ugh, don’t make me regret this.”

Dean suddenly rolls himself up like a mummy, keeping every piece of his skin separate from Cas, “Yeah, uh, sorry, dude, sorry.”

Except Cas doesn’t approve of his unspoken no-touching rule, as he twines his arms tightly around Dean’s middle and pulls him against him. “Don’t worry, I won’t wake you up with morning wood.”

This is all somewhat resembling a few too many of Dean’s late-night fantasies, “What, you sayin’ I’m not pretty?”

Cas chuckles and just pulls him against his chest, “Be serious. You’re the prettiest, Dean, in all the land.”

“I kick in my sleep, y’know.”

“I _do_ know, I’ve seen it for myself. It’s like a dog chasing a rabbit in its sleep. Delightful.”

They settle in and it’s… so fucking weird how normal this feels, Cas holding Dean against him. Like they’ve been doing this all their lives. Like they’re incomplete without the other- and there he goes again, wanting things he just can’t fucking have. Dean’s wishful thinking is at its worst when the sun goes down.

He’s about to drift off when Cas murmurs, “My mother would’ve really like you.”

“Because of my butt, right?” Dean slurs against his pillow (his soft, beautiful pillow…)

“That and… everything else,” he chuckles. “I think my father’s dead.”

Okay, now he’s up. “Dude, you wanna talk about it?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about it entirely,” Cas says, sounding drowsier by the second. “I think I just… needed to say it out loud. Make it real, so that I may… ‘deal with it’.”

Dean might as well be drunk for how open he’s being, but the whole 3am thing is really getting to him, “Well, if that were true, you should just, like, come live with us.”

“You’re tired, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“ _In vino veritas_ , butthead.”

“That’s wine, Dean,” but he still nuzzles into Dean’s back, “go to sleep.”

“Ay ay, commander,” he says, snoring before he’s even finished processing that sentence.

He maybe dreams that Cas presses a kiss to the top of his head, but that could well be real. And worse, it could mean nothing more than how much Cas loves him… like a best friend/brother-type. Their easy affection towards one another is both a blessing and a curse, and Dean doesn’t know how he’s gonna sleep from now on without sharing his bed with Cas.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a while since he revisited his book, he’s been a little preoccupied with, well, everything, but when he reads over the Smith’s death scene, Cas’s words rattle around in his head.

So he writes a little something else, just for him, just for the Smith.

_It was an undisputed fact that androids do not, in actuality dream. Not even of electric sheep. But James had bucked the trend of what androids can and cannot do since he came off the Veyor. And that night he dreamt of the Smith._

_“My organs have been quite mixed up by your shenanigans, Jimmy,” the Smith drawled in the middle of a beautiful field, the kind that no one had seen in millennia except in field designs and rudimentary history annals. Full of Echinochloa muricata (commonly known as grass) and Tagetes patula (commonly known as marigolds), the scene was pleasing, unobtrusive._

_“I miss you,” James said, unimaginative but truthful, “I miss you like my central nervous system is infected, like my circuitboard has been replaced and melted down for scraps.”_

_The Smith, for once, faltered in his wicked grin and instead rushed towards James. He brought him to his chest, still burned out, still a crude yet clean hole right through his middle, and James had never felt more… was this what home felt like?_

_“I miss you, too, angel cake,” the Smith mumbled into his hair, kissing it gently, “I miss you like the stars have been taken out. I wish I never had to leave you.”_

_James’s tears, real, real tears, that didn’t hurt to fall, fell into his… hands. Real hands, made of flesh and bone and sinew and blood. They were his and he was real._

_“I don’t want to leave,” James sobbed, the Smith touching him and he could truly feel it, not as a technological murmur, but real touch. “I don’t want to leave this place.”_

_“You have places to go, my love, and I just can’t follow,” the Smith said, but he looked deeply into his eyes. “You have very important things to do, and I will be waiting.”_

_The Smith leaned in closer, finally, to kiss him (James had heard of kissing, he’d heard great things, powerful things, things that had run up and down his circuitry for days after he’d simply heard about it), lifting his chin up to meet him and-_

_“Sir! Something’s coming up on the scanner, and it’s not pretty,” James heard the corporal scream, rousing him from his dream. Sleeping in the corner of the control room had its disadvantages. He touched his lips, metal and silicon mix, looked at his hands, silicon with a small interface in his palm. He’d never wished for a human voice box more in his life._

Dean leaned back in his chair, kinda proud of this corny little scene. It probably wouldn’t even make it into the final draft, but he knew exactly who to send it to.

>>New Email: <[thebeeatitudes@gmail.com](mailto:thebeeatitudes@gmail.com)>

>> Insert attachment: <little_present.pdf>

>> :: hey butthead, thought you might like to take a gander ;) this one’s just for you.

>> _message sent_


	22. chivalry not required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for the start of this chapter: outright transphobic language aimed at cas, so watch out! otherwise fun and angst galore, business as usual. enjoy~

Is it really only a couple months before graduation? Holy shit. Holy SHIT. Dean feels ready to go full Ginsberg on this situation, right here right in his brainspace, when he hears an unfamiliar voice talking to a familiar voice. He counts his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. At least he’s not in a dream. Things have been feeling… not solid lately. It’s a little weird, but Dean’s trusting his tried and tested methods of repression and that’s worked out kinda well, right? Wait, new voice talking to Cas, focus. He bites the inside of his cheeks until he tastes stale copper and slams his locker door closed.

He spots Cas talking to a taller, much blonder kid with a kooky accent at his locker. He can’t help but stare. Blondie’s leaning a little too close to Cas for Dean’s liking but… but he knows what happened last time and he’s not willing to lose Cas’s trust over some… pointless (not pointless) show of chivalry. Even if the guy is ratcheting the creep factor to over nine thousand.

Ah fuck it. “Heya, Cas!” Dean chirps, sidling up the two as inconspicuously as he can (which, in this case, is not so inconspicuous considering the aforementioned staring). “And New Dude, what’s up New Dude?”

“I was actually christened Balthazar, but New Dude is somehow more charming,” Balthazar drawls, and that’s one thick British accent, “Charmed, darling. Are you the lovely Dean I’ve been hearing so much about?”

Dean takes a moment to try and not squeal like a little girl at a Shania Twain concert because Cas has been talking about him, Cas has been _talking_ about _him_ to _other people_. Maybe as a way to shirk the guy off, but who gives a shit? And _lovely_ things too! Fuck! “I dunno, hopefully, uh. Not too lovely, gotta reputation to uphold an’ shit.”

Cas rolls his eyes only to stare at the floor. Balthazar chuckles (he didn’t think real people actually did that) and leans in closer to Cas. The bell’s about to ring, probably, maybe (time’s a little unstable right now, truth be told) and Cas can’t afford another tardy, especially since Zachariah got laid off. Which may or may not have been Charlie and Dean’s joint effort, but Cas doesn’t need to be any the wiser to their schemes. The more deniable plausibility, the better.

“Well, darling, shall I see you at lunch?” Balthazar drawls. Cas wrinkles his nose and darts his eyes to Dean in a clear ‘please assist’ look.

“Actually, buddy, me and Cas got a date ‘round about that time,” he says without even fucking thinking because why the hell not? Not exactly like the mental torture of being around someone as tactile as Cas whilst being unbelievably in love with him has been a walk in the the park, but hey, just pile it on, whatever. He curls a protective hand around Cas’s shoulder and can feel the guy bristle up under his palm before relaxing and pressing into his side. “Sorry,” Dean smiles, his side on fire and his blaring smile definitely not looking very sorry.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Balthazar to splutter and laugh. “S-seriously?” he bursts, barely getting the words out between wiping tears from his eyes.

Dean can’t help but straighten up, looking around at everyone suddenly noticing and stopping to watch the show. Cas seems to notice too, and tries to duck out of the way before Dean pulls him closer. He doesn’t see Cas look up at him but he can feel the disbelief (hopefully the good kind) casting a beam onto his face.

“You got a problem with that, English?”

“No, no, just, um,” he sniggers, about to walk away, “never figured the great womaniser Dean Winchester would get all tied up over a ladyboy like Cassy.”

It’s not like a punch in the face, really, it’s more like a slow but sure puncture, right between the ribs. Maybe with a scalpel. It’s precise, it’s effective, and it hurts like hell. Dean’s fists are already clenching up when he feels Cas’s hand gently hold them back to his sides.

Dean looks carefully at Cas, everyone else losing interest; some idiots jeering at them, but otherwise dissipating. Cas’s face is a stone, cold and flat and resigned.

“Dean, don’t,” he murmurs. “Let’s just go.”

He wants to simultaneously hold Cas until all the bad in the world goes the fuck away and punch Balthazar until he’s shitting his own teeth, but he knows Cas needs a friend, not a guardian. He can be both, but right now, they need to get to class. Balthazar can’t win this fleeting battle if they don’t acknowledge defeat.

“Yeah, okay, Cas,” he says quietly, and he does, he does go.

Cas, however-

“WHAT THE F- ” Balthazar cries out before he’s got a torso full of raging Cas. He doesn’t get much else out, and even if he does, it’s drowned out by a sudden crowd cheering on the violence as the bell rings shrill and piercing over it all.

Dean can hear one thing though, one low growling constant: “Say that again.” Punch. “Say it to my face, you coward.” Punch. “You dare disrespect me- ”

It seems like an age before Dean can fight his way through and pull Cas out, leaving Balthazar a mess in his wake.

Cas looks at his fists as the school security approaches, his eyes wide as his grin, “Dean- ”

“No time, dude.”

Cas nods, “Run?”

“Hell yeah.”

 

* * *

 

“That was… exhilarating,” Cas breathes when they slam the door on his house. His… weirdly empty house.

“Dude, where’s all your furniture?” Dean asks, but Cas looks down at his knuckles, his hands completely still and sticky with blood.

“I haven’t ever… I’ve never done that before,” he murmurs, sitting down on the cooling hardwood. He skates his palms over the less tanned rectangle where a mangy version of a rug once sat.

Dean sat down beside him with zero hesitation, “Whaddya mean? You took on a whole classroom for me once, remember?”

Cas winces at the memory, “Yes, but- but that wasn’t for me, that was for you.”

“Oh,” Dean shifts from side to side, awkward as hell, “You didn’t have to.”

Cas turns to him, tilting his head like Dean’s just spouted complete trash, “Of course I did. And I’d do it again.”

“So how’s this different?”

“I’ve never let that rage- I’ve never let it out so completely like that before. I felt…” he struggles for the words, nothing to fiddle with except the end of his sweater sleeve. “I felt dangerous.”

Dean shrugs, picking at his shoelaces, “Feeling dangerous can feel good, y’know.”

“Not like that,” Cas trails off, getting up and walking into the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” Dean keeps looking around.

“Tap okay?” he calls out.

“Tap’s good, Cas,” Dean can only focus on the empty corners of the room, everything so bare the dust-made tumbleweeds take up more space than anything.

Cas walks back in and hands Dean the tepid glass, which is less of a glass and more of a jelly jar.

He raises the hexagonal beverage in the air, “To minimalism.”

Cas blushes, “Shut up, Dean.”

“Dude, what happened to this place? Looks like you got raided by some seriously meticulous assholes.”

“Meticulous assholes that paid me enough,” Cas grits out, stalking back into the kitchen, glass threatening to break in his grip.

“Cas, wait,” Dean follows him into the kitchen to find him leaning over the sink like the fixtures might leave even if they are nailed down. “I thought- I thought everything was okay.”

“I was hoping you would continue to think that until you’d already set off for New York,” Cas confesses, still refusing to look at him. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Helpless,” Cas sighs, placing the full jar into the fridge, careful not to spill anything. “Turns out you need money in this godforsaken world to function.”

“You sold everything to- to what? Stay here alone? And you weren’t gonna tell me?” Dean knows he sounds hurt, and it’s not appropriate, but fuck this, “After everything we’ve been through, after everything I’ve done for you, you hide this from- ”

“Exactly, Dean!” Cas blurts, staring into the drain like it holds all the answers. “Everything you’ve done for me, and what could I possibly give in return? What could I possibly do to repay you for the kindness and- and the loyalty you’ve given to me?” He shakes a little, the first time he hasn’t seemed carved from granite since this morning. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. Anyone else, everyone else, I can handle if they saw how… _pathetic_ I am… but not you.” It’s so quiet Dean thinks Cas can hear the blood rushing through him at a million miles per hour.

Dean can’t say anything, so he just holds Cas, carefully tapping him on the shoulder to turn until he’s got him curled into his arms. Cas breathes him in and doesn’t need to look at him to unburden himself.

“I used all my money, Dean. Everything. For the HRT, the surgery, everything I’ve saved since I was fourteen, it’s all- ” he sniffs, burying his head into Dean’s shoulder roughly, like he might burrow in there and never come out.

Dean just stays there, solid as he can be (because it’s a whole different story when it’s Cas that needs something stable) until dusk starts to creep up on them and he misses calls from Mary.

“So, you wanna come over for a while?” Dean says, easy as anything.

Cas shakes his head, “Dean, I can’t, I can’t keep- ”

“Cas? Please? I want you to,” Dean says to the most likely bare cupboards. He’s starting to understand the appeal of confessing to inanimate objects. “And I didn’t mean to throw all that shit in your face, I just- you worry me. A lot. Like all the time. It’s fuckin’ awful, and it’d gimme some serious piece of mind if I had you near me instead of worrying about whether you’re gonna get a solid meal in you regularly.”

He seems to consider this against Dean’s chest before nodding and unclasping.

“Do you have those Kraft slices?”

“ _Those_ monstrosities? That’s not cheese, that’s for grouting.”

Cas pouts nearly the whole drive back.

 

* * *

 

Dean sits on his ass staring at his screen, hit by acute writer’s block. Cas loved his last little tidbit (or at least he assumed judging from the serious of exclamation points that had made up the entire email) and since he’s been going through shit, Dean wants to cheer him up with something similar. But it just… doesn’t make sense for the Smith and James to have another scene together. The Smith is dead and Dean is no Moffat; a great story has real stakes, and if he just brought people back to life just because, then death would have no meaning and _then what_. So he takes a different route instead.

_The sky had never been more blue, most likely because the chemical attacks hadn’t worn off yet, and still it paled in comparison to the depth of James’s eyes. How could anyone crafting such eyes ever think they didn’t belong to something celestial. The Smith kissed gently down James’s chest and scratched thin white lines into his silicon torso. They didn’t fade away. He gazed into James’s eyes, something he’d never thought he’d be partial to before, but James wasn’t just anyone._

_“Very convenient how hotly your core runs, dear one,” the Smith kissed his naval and crawled up his body to survey his face. “You make me very warm.”_

_James raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “Is that all you keep me around for?”_

_The Smith grinned, happier than he’d felt in light years. “Of course, what else would I need you for?”_

_James sighed a little before the Smith captured his lips in a lingering kiss, trailing his claws so carefully along his jaw. James sighed more, this time his hips pushing against the Smith’s leg, insistent and sweet all at once._

_“You make me feel undone,” James breathed, “you make me feel human.”_

_The Smith gasped into his mouth, pushing back and rutting sharply, desperate and out of control. What a strange little android, what a beautiful being that had snuck into his crevices and made homes there. Sweet man made of circuits and binary bits, that loved such a dark creature. And the Smith would not change, he had not changed, and yet here this lovely sharp thing lay beneath him, wanting him. Maybe not more, but it was always enough. James would always be enough, and for a greedy Smith, that was a terrifying notion._

_“Smith, I- I-” he whimpered before screwing his eyes tightly shut and making a furious whirring buzzing sound, like he was unlocking. It was beyond science and wonder. It was miraculous to behold. The Smith caressed (and he had not caressed anything, not in his whole existence, before James) his cheeks, whispering nothings in low tones, revelling in how James clutched him, dragged him close._

_There was nothing closer to paradise than an android’s love._

Dean leaned back, typing out a quick message to Cas.

>>New Email: <thebeeatitudes@gmail.com>

>> Insert attachment: <coda_maybe.pdf>

>> :: okay don’t get too excited, this is just maybe something that might’ve happened at some point ;-)

>> message sent

 

* * *

 

Okay, maybe since it’s near to the end of the year, near to the end of high school, near to the end of _leaving home for the first time ever_ (cue internal melodramatic wailing), Dean should probably start looking at ways to visit the campus before he sets off. Road trip sounds fantastic, but Mary wants him to be able to get there asap. She’s even shelled out enough for a really nice plane ticket (if he’s careful, he might even be able to scoop a first class one) and yet. And fucking yet. He’s nervous just clicking on the website, the thought of take-off already rumbling too low in his stomach. Oh wait, that’s actually vomit.

He runs to the bathroom, barging in to barf direct into the toilet bowl. That’s when he hears the sniffing and the ‘ew, gross Dean!’ from the bath next to him. Sam sits curled up and looking pretty indignantly up at him, especially considering the fresh track of tears.

Dean crouches beside the bath, splaying his bowlegs out to sit on the bathmat. “Sammy, you doin’ okay, bud?”

“What, like you’re noticing me all of a sudden?” Sam huffs, crossing his arms and settling against the cold bath tiles. “Leave me alone, Dean.”

“Can’t do that, bud. You’re stuck with me,” he leans over to ruffle Sam’s hair which gets the desired reaction of Sam pulling away and actually seeming Sam-like. “What’s wrong, man?”

Sam curls up a little tighter, “It’s… I don’t know.”

“Dude, you can tell me anything. Perks of the job.”

“What job?”

“Being my pain-in-the-ass little brother,” Dean grins.

Sam scoffs, “I need to talk about my pay check. It’s a little too little for a whole lot of bother.”

Dean laughs and eventually Sam’s smiling a little bit too. “C’mon, man, it’s not like you’ve screwed up too badly, else I’d’ve heard about it already, right?”

Sam’s face scrunches up tightly, like he’s about to start crying again. “It’s… I can’t tell you, Dean, it’s not good, and you’re gonna hate me, and you’re gonna think I’m gross and- and- ” He’s gasping great sobs out of the air and it breaks Dean’s heart to see Sammy like this.

He cuddles him awkwardly over the low rim of the bath, “Hey, shh, it’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay…”

Sam quietens down a little, snuffling into the roll of toilet paper Dean snatched out of the cupboard under the sink. “I kissed someone today.”

Dean nudges him a little, “Hey, what’s wrong with that? Little bro, big player.”

Sam’s mouth downturns drastically, “ _He_ didn’t like it very much once Stacey Meyer caught us, and he… pushed me over and called me names.”

“Oh…” Dean trails off. Huh.

Sam mistakes his pause for disgust and seems to curl further into himself until Dean grabs at his shoulder. “Hey, punk, where’d you think you’re going?”

“You think I’m gross, just like Brady, just like everybody,” Sam blubbers, still grasping onto Dean’s shirt.

Dean kisses the top of his head, “Well, if I thought you were gross, I’d think I was gross, wouldn’t I?”

Sam stops for a second, “Wait, what?”

“Mom never told you?”

“Told me what?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m- I like kissing other guys, too. Girls, guys, whatever, man.”

Sam’s eyes widen, then squint, like he’s calculating something, before leaning back in thought. “Huh. That… does make sense.”

Dean gets up bringing Sam out of the bath and into the hallway. He scratches his head, looking down at his shoes. “You wanna watch me play Mass Effect?”

Sam shrugs, “Sure.”

Dean grins and pulls his brother into a hug, “By the way, you know that Brady kid’s an asshole, right?”

 

* * *

 

It’s not even much later than that afternoon that Mary’s lazing on the couch channel-hopping, enjoying her random day off that Cas knocks on the door (no one knocks to the beat of hooked on a feeling like Cas does) and Dean pulls it open to see Cas’s head hung low.

“Uh, dude, you okay?”

In lieu of a reply, Cas just shoves the opened letter into Dean’s chest and slumps over the chair by Mary.

She pats his head, “Hi, sweetie.”

Dean sees the Tisch School of Arts seal and knows with a doubtlessly sinking feeling that it’s a rejection letter. Cas can’t come with him to New York. Not yet, anyway.

“You could apply again in the spring, right?”

Cas grumbles into the upholstery. Mary ruffles his hair and looks over at Dean, nodding her head towards the kitchen conspiratorially.

“Honey, is Cas okay?” she whispers, although the buzz of Master Chef is enough to drown her out.

Dean doesn’t know what the protocol here is. Because no, Cas is the furthest thing from okay. He’s got no money, no future, and his only reprieve is pretending none of it’s happening to him whilst sleeping over at his best friend’s place, but even that couch-hopping pipe dream of coming to New York _with Dean,_ which was meant to be something to look forward to… even that’s been delayed, if not indefinitely. Cas is the tenacious type, but this is too much.

“Uh-”

“Say no more,” Mary murmurs. “You and me got a project to embark on, okay?” She squeezes his cheek and pats the redness away, “My beautiful boy… I’m so proud of you, y’know that?”

Huh? “Huh?”

“Do I need an excuse to appreciate my baby?” Mary chides, before bringing him in for a tight hug, “You have wonderful friends, but most importantly, they have you.”

He pulls away a little, checking Cas hasn’t suffocated from all the face-planting. He’s still breathing which is a good sign, even if Cas doesn’t particularly think it is. “Okay, Mom, have fun with that cryptic stuff.”

“I think it’s time you got a bigger bed, don’t you?” She winks at him and suddenly it all falls into place.

His eyebrows almost reach his forehead before he hisses, “Who told you? Was it Anna? No one's meant to know he might-”

She zips her lips and rubs her hands together, “Mom’s the word, but I think this calls for a trip to IKEA, don’t you?”

Oh, God. Not IKEA.

 

* * *

 

It takes a couple days, but they complete their top secret plans and invite Cas over for dinner, which, in and of itself, isn't suspicious, but Dean's still concerned that they're being too obvious. Castiel’s laugh rings heavenly through the house, especially when he’s this flushed and happy (Mary _may_ have suggested a little wine… maybe… possibly, although she didn’t need to not offer Dean any when he flat-out refused to touch it).

He hasn’t been to Dean’s room yet, and Dean’s lucky he hasn’t sweat right through his shirt, because this all has the potential to blow right up in his face if he’s not careful. Sam also seems less burdened recently; maybe actually talking to his little brother is… maybe… a good thing? Although not too much, they don’t wanna turn into the Brady Bunch (pun a little intended).

Cas gets up to start towards the door, thanking everyone profusely for dinner and everything, still clutching his stomach for laughing so much. That, of course, is when Mary pulls him back.

“Sweetheart, I think you forgot something in Dean’s room,” she says gently, and guides Cas near the stairs. “Dean, honey, show him.”

Dean takes his cue, nodding up to his room and for Cas to follow him wordlessly.

They get to the door and Dean stops, “Now, don’t freak out, this isn’t an obligation, but like… just keep an open mind.”

“Just show him the damn room, Dean!” Sam yells from downstairs.

Cas looks around him, eyes owl-wide and uncertain. “What is happening right now?”

Instead of answering, Dean pushes the door open to his room and shows him.

The room’s been cleaned within an inch of its life and there’s not one bit of clutter left. Everything that didn’t needed to be thrown out sits comfortably in boxes in the attic. Instead of Dean’s twin sits a slightly cramped but super squishy queen-sized bed (Dean and Sam did some seriously extensive testing in-store, much to Mary’s eternal shame).

Dean watches as realisation dawns on Cas’s face, his jaw slowly lowering as he takes in the labels on the wardrobe (one half with Dean in big blocky letters and the other half with Cas in neatly-done scrawls). There’s a mountain of pillows because Cas fucking loves pillows, and three duvets so they’d never end up without one.

Finally there’s two chairs at either side of a slightly more futuristic desk, one blue and one green. Cas lets his fingers glide over the plastic before bringing his hand up to cover his mouth.

“Dean…”

“Now don’t get all sappy on me, man,” Dean says, even as his voice breaks, “Winchesters don’t do shit by halves. And you’d know that, since… since you’re a Winchester, too.”

Cas’s eyes glisten and his smile is wobbly, but definitely there. “I couldn’t…”

“Shut up, man, just c’mere,” Dean says before being gathered up in the squeeziest hug of his life. He hears Mary and Sam come upstairs too, and they add their arms and embraces, staying there for as long as they can.

Mary kisses the top of Cas’s head and he lets out a short, stabbing sob. “Thank you,” he whispers, and they hold him even closer.


	23. never judge a book by its accurate portrayals of the love of your life or whatever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for sexual content, discussions of depression and suicide. happy reading!

There are so many possibilities to your best friend, who happens to be the love of your life, probably, moving in permanently. To your house. Sleeping in your bed. Etcetera. There’s the possibility that he might find out, after all the lingering looks are up close _all the time_. Breakfast, lunch, brushing teeth, there’s no escaping the tension coming off Dean in waves whenever he’s with Cas. And, with all anxiety-ridden overthinkings, there are three possibilities that tail off from _that._ One, Cas hates him forever. He might assume that Dean still sees him as… not him. He might demand to leave immediately, anger etched into every line of his face as he vows never to see Dean ever again, leaving Dean a miserable wreck. It’s a melodramatic visualisation but Dean opens his eyes to tear-tracked cheeks nonetheless. Cas could be confused, but ultimately understanding. He’d be kind but they’d gradually lose their closeness, what with Cas being too careful and Dean letting his resentment get the better of him. This scenario has Dean locked in a black room in his mind for a few hours before Sam informs him that a step’s broken on the stairs and he has to fix it. The third, his wildest most impossible possibility, is that Cas loves him back, that he feels somewhere near how Dean feels about him. Dean never gets much further than the heartfelt confessions because, to be honest, he comes too quickly. All of these cinematic, beautiful theories, tragic and heart-achingly real in his brainspace.

Of course, there’s the other possibility: that Cas is just his pain-in-the-ass best friend.

“Dude, _how long do you need to poop?_ ” he yells, banging on the door, jumping from foot to foot because he really has to fuckin’ pee.

A dismayed grunt comes out from behind the door, “Everyone poops, Dean, it’s a part of life.”

“How many lives will it take for you to get out the damn bathroom?!”

Sam pops his head out, “Dean, can you keep it down?”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas calls out as the toilet flushes. There’s a sound of the flowery spray and Cas appears, frustrated as hell, scrunching up his nose. “Your Majesty,” he even does a little sarcastic bow as Dean pushes past him.

“Finally…” Dean says as he thoughtlessly pulls himself out of his boxers… while Cas is still standing there. Which he doesn’t actually process until he’s already well into jet stream mode. “DUDE!” because he still has a sense of propriety around the guy.

Cas pretends to be nonchalant, but he’s blushing like hell, waving his hand and looking away, “Nothing I haven’t seen before…”

Dean grimaces, thinking he was at least a little more careful than that, “Get out!”

And so he does. Without closing the door behind him.

When Dean comes back to their room, Cas is curled up back in bed, right where Dean’s spot is. Dean would usually get pissed because he likes the space right next to the wall best because when it gets hot at night he can press his nose against the cool plaster. He’s also more likely to be cuddled when he’s facing the wall, but he doesn’t tell Cas that. Obviously. However, he’s deciding to be merciful so he can get a lockdown on the last couple of chapters of… whatever his book is called now. He still hasn’t thought of it.

He sits down at his side of the desk and winces as the start-up sound is way louder than he thought it was. He looks over at Cas’s side, strewn with sketches and coloured pens he salvaged from his drawers. There aren’t that many, but he refuses to let anyone buy him anymore on the grounds that he’s experimenting with something called three-toned palettes? Dean has no fuckin’ clue, but it’s probably got more to do with the guy’s never-ending martyrdom than any artistic bullshit. He tries to take a peak at the sketchbook he’s not allowed to open, but Cas groans and turns, scratching his belly as he watched Dean.

“Do you ever take a minute to not work?” he mumbles, sleep-heavy and gorgeous. Annoying. But gorgeous.

Dean smirks at him, “Only to pee. S’why I’ve got such a tight bathroom schedule.”

Cas’s face twists up, “Apologies. I am not… the most agreeable in the mornings.”

Dean scoffs, because yeah, he doesn’t have to tell him. The last time Dean tried to set an alarm to get up early for a quick SAT study session, Cas destroyed his alarm clock without another word before settling back to sleep, right up against Dean’s back. So duh, he didn’t exactly complain about it.

“Want me t’make you some breakfast?” Dean offers, but Cas shakes his head, clutching his pillow underneath him as he stretches on his stomach, splayed right out across their bed. Their bed. Fuck.

“You’re working. I’d hate to disturb a ‘genius at work’,” he slams his face back into the pillow, huffing quietly into it.

Dean watches him for a little while before he gets back to typing. And he doesn’t have to tell anyone about it, either.

 

* * *

 

He knows he’s in trouble, though, when Cas gives him his thoughtful look after reading over his pages for the millionth time.

“Who is… who is the Smith based off of?” he asks it so quietly, but Dean hears it like a pin drop. (Or something, that’s just a thing people say, right? What does a pin dropping even sound like?)

For a second Dean has no idea he’s spaced for so long until Cas gets closer, asking him again. “Dean, who is the Smith based off of?”

Dean has no idea how to manage this, really. Cas knows. He knows for certain that James is based pretty much entirely off him, he has to know. Dean gave James all of his characteristics, adapted turns of phrases, but recognisable all the same. They’re basically doppelgängers, except Cas is made out of skin and bone and James is… not. Also the real/fiction thing, but details blah blah, like anyone pays any attention to that kinda arbitrary distinction these days, sheesh. So what can he tell Cas, really? Lying at this point… it’s tempting, it really is.

“He’s… me. Basically,” Dean shrugs, “just exaggerating my own terribleness. Great authors do it all the time.” He grins, wolfish, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and he knows it. It doesn’t help that they’re in his living room and somehow everything that takes place outside of his bedroom feels exposed somehow, especially between him and Cas.

Cas seems to process the answer pretty slowly, in his way. Probably short-circuiting a little. “Oh.”

“Yup.”

“So you… don’t truly align yourself with the Smith.” It’s not a question, but of course it is, really, under all that goddamn subtext.

Dean just shrugs again, that’s his safest bet, “The characters depicted are not associated or affiliated with any existing persons, yadda yadda, lip service, you get the picture,” he’s rambling, oh fuck, he’s rambling. He tops it off with yet another worthless smile because he’s a cowardly lying sack of shit and he’s super not-sneaky about it too. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Cas nods. Just. He nods. “May I borrow your computer to read it again?”

“‘Course, dude, though I can’t think why,” he goes back to reviewing his History notes or whoever-the-fuck-cares-what he was doing before he lied directly to his best friend’s face.

He knows he’s not meant to hear it, but Cas says under his breath, “You wouldn’t.”

 

* * *

 

Yet another aspect to Cas living with them now is that he has to jerk off like a goddamn spy, keeping it quick, quiet and nameless. His lips run ragged with his instinct to cry out, especially when he knows Cas is still in the house while he’s trying to relieve the tension. Only his dick is really feeling the change. That is, the more he ~pleasures himself, the greater his resistance becomes. Before Cas came to stay, Dean’s… let’s say, blue stages kept his libido pretty low. He was going two or three weeks without touching himself. Now, though. Jesus, he’s honest to fuck surprised he hasn’t yanked the damn thing right off his body, what with his hormones finally catching up to him. Plus Cas is… so fucking domestic, it’s sending Dean to his grave. His early, disturbingly sticky grave.

So he resorts to shower time for his longest private times, because he forgot how inconvenient sharing a room was. As much as he would fucking love to indulge in an accidental situation where Cas asks him if he ‘would like any help with that’, but because Dean’s life isn’t porn (a shame) and he isn’t a completely despicable and gross person (contrary to the reputation), he keeps Cas out of it as much as possible.

It’s one of those really chill Thursday afternoons, which are getting fewer and further between, where Sam’s at debate club still and probably heading back to Barry’s for dinner before he calls for Dean to pick him up, his Mom’s on shift and Cas is busy doing some serious cramming downstairs for the foreseeable hour.

Basically, it’s perfect.

Dean strips off slowly, for once, letting himself for the first time in a damn long while. He lets the water rush over him for a bit before doing anything, just touching his sides, feeling his collar, pretending it’s someone else being this intimate with him. Three fucking guesses who.

He lets his hand travel down, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. His hands don’t shake like they usually do, and his mind throws up pictures he doesn’t let himself acknowledge normally.

They’re outside. They’ve been running and they take a moment against the barn, except Cas is giving him this look, not the thoughtful one, not the frustrated one, the one Dean has never seen on his face anywhere other than his own mind. There’s a hunger there that frightens him and excites him and whatever over Duran Duran lyric he can think of. Cas pushes him against the creaking wood, cupping his jaw before closing the gap between them like a snake. He feels devoured, like Cas might tear him apart and he wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop him. It’s thrilling like nothing else is, and he grabs just as fiercely back, thrusting into the circle of his fingers.

As Cas pulls away, spit-slick lips unnaturally lush, Dean catches his breath (dream-breath? whatever) and as Dean’s fingers curl into a fist in the real world, Cas gets down on his knees in his dream world.

He doesn’t say anything, because Dean can’t truly think of Cas like this, it still feels like some kinda violation against him, so he’s just… porn-Cas. And porn-Cas is pretty incredible at sucking cock. He breathes delicately against it, Dean’s imagination so vivid he genuinely shivers at the sensation. He teases with tongue for a little bit before pulling the skin over his uncut dick and taking it all in one go, slowly but surely.

Dean’s breaths get heavier as his limbs get looser, because that weird darkness that’s been hanging around lately is making the vision dissipate in his mind’s eye too quickly, unfairly. Dean grunts harder, not feeling the water, or the cooling tile his other hand is pushing against, or anything, really. All he can focus on is Cas’s face as he loves everything about Dean, even his fucking dick, which is sweaty after running, that can’t be nice, right? But Cas loves it, he loves Dean, he loves-

“Cas!” he grits out, his ears ringing with it.

His body sags with the extended session. But instead of the usual lightness it tends to bring, there’s nothing, just… more emptiness. That’s all he is, isn’t it? Empty. Alone. It’s all so fucking clear how pointless he is. Why would anyone, least of all Cas, want someone as pathetic as Dean, someone that warps his best friend into the kind of mindless fantasy (that thankfully doesn’t exist) just to get off maybe fifteen feet above his head? How could anyone love something like that?

He’s startled out of his cyclical pep-talk by a knock on the door. “Dean?”

The steam clouds out around him, his face clean of any joy he might’ve gotten in the last couple of minutes. “Yeah?”

“I- uh,” Cas starts, pointing downstairs, “I thought I heard you, um, call me?”

Fuck. _Fuck_. Fucking asshat. “Um, no?”

But Cas is so much smarter than that, he can smell the excess in the room, even if Dean can’t anymore. He blushes, hard, and smiles like a downtrodden PA. “Oh, uh, my mistake!”

He runs downstairs before he has any time to say anything else.

Dean only just stops himself from slamming the door closed.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark, thick like tacky ink. It doesn’t taste good, either, it tastes like second-hand vomit. He wakes up in it, because he’s been breathing it in, choking on it. He feels like he’s burnt right through his brain stem just by pure ethanol alone. He shouldn’t have skimped on the sleeping pills.

“Can’t even kill yourself right, huh?” It’s a voice made of bristles, one he hasn’t heard in years, at least not outside of his treacherous head.

He sits up, his mouth heavy with what feels like dried blood. John just waves him away. Probably doesn’t want to hear any excuses his piece of shit son has to say.

“What- ”

“Stop talkin’, boy. You thinkin’ of leavin’ so soon? Who’s gonna take care’a Sammy? And your mother? You wanna be just as worthless? What’d that do to ‘em, huh?” He stands up, his knuckles scratched and bruised.

Dean feels his eyes burn as he cries, “Please, dad, I’m sorry.”

“No son of mine punches his ticket early, kid,” he chuckles, cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails, even though his face is melting, bubbling like it’s cooking underneath the skin. “You wanna die? Do it like a man.”

“I’m not ready,” he mumbles. It’s pointless to lie, but he can’t help be a contrarian in the face of his father. He jaw unhinges and falls off. He watches as it shatters and turns to dust in a mere second.

John just laughs again. “What’re you talkin’ about? You been dead for years.”

 

* * *

 

“Dean? Dean, Dean, please, please, wake up, Dean, please- ” Cas mutters, shaking him faster and faster.

“Stop, Cas, stop,” Dean cries, but he’s breathing heavily and his eyes are hurting.

He can see Cas like a beacon in the night, his face cast in shadow and concern. His voice is even scratchy with fear, “What- what were you dreaming about?”

Dean shakes his head, “Dunno.”

Cas’s face scrunches up, like he wants to call him out on it, but it smoothes out an almost imperceptible moment later. “Would you like me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

“No, is- is Mom home?”

Cas tilts his head before recognition clouds his face. He nods and watches Dean get out of bed. It’s an odd sensation, not feeling like you’re even real, let alone whether you’re yourself or not. “Is there anything you need?” His voice breaks a little towards the end, and any other time Dean would scoop him up and let him know it’s not his fault, lie and tell him he’s fine, that it was just bad cheese and everything will be okay once the sun comes up.

“Mmm,” he says instead, walking down the hall to Mary’s room.

He slips into the other side of her bed soundlessly, and she murmurs in her sleep, “Dean, what on earth are you- ” she’s hugged him, she can feel the wetness on his cheeks, “… sweetheart?”

“Mom, can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course, baby, of course,” she whispers, kissing his head and tucking him into more blankets, as if they’ll smother the bad out of him.

He falls asleep before she does, and his last feeling is a distant guilt.

 

* * *

 

The worst thing about reaching certain points is that you kinda have to acknowledge it, especially when other people are involved. When he wakes up alone in his Mom’s bed to the smell of eggs and coffee that everyone has been discussing him since they woke up.

He doesn’t wanna go downstairs. This whole secrecy has been working just fine for this long because of the whole not-facing-reality thing. It was tough, but it worked.

If he goes downstairs, it’s real. If he goes downstairs, everything changes. He doesn’t know if he’s truly ready for that just yet, but his stomach is grumbling something fierce, so might as well face the terrible music.

“Anyone save me some eggs?” he croaks, seeing the as-expected huddle where they’ve most likely been talking in hush-hush tones about him. Sam’s been crying, Cas’s lips are basically ribbons and Mary’s sporting her most fetching raccoon look, and it’s all his fault. “What’s with the council of Elrond down here?”

“Hey, Sam, could I borrow you for some, um, scrabble tips upstairs?” Cas tries, but Sam will not be moved.

“There’s an app for that, Cas.”

“Sam,” Mary says, and he goes, and god Dean wishes they’d stayed as soon as he hears Sam’s stomps into his room.

Mary gets up and hugs Dean, “Sweetheart, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About last night.”

“What about it?”

“What about- Dean,” she sighs, “you were… I hadn’t seen you like that since- ”

“Since, what, Mom?” Dean can hear the dangerous edge to his own words.

She doesn’t wanna say it, but god if she’s gonna make him do this, she’s gotta ‘fess up too. “Since the incident. You know what I’m talking about.”

He laughs, humourless, “What’s with the euphemisms, ma? Call a horse a horse.” He’s daring her, and it’s not fair. Nothing’s fair.

She looks down to her shoes, gathering herself, “Since you tried to- ” is about as far as she gets before she tears up, covering her mouth and trying not to gasp for air. He lets go, just this once, just because he can’t bear it. He practically runs to her, bending her head under his chin and letting her cry. “I can’t- I can’t go through that again, Dean, I can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Mom I’ll just- ”

“You’ll just nothing, Dean, we’re finding you- someone, someone to talk to,” she sits up, wiping her face furiously, “we need to.”

“What like a head shrink?”

“Yes, like a head shrink, maybe, if that’s what you need.”

“It’s not.”

She bites her lip, her face twisted, “Dean, please…”

“I’ve been fine enough for the last three years, Mom, not like anyone noticed then!” he shouts, and god, Cas and Sam might hear him and he doesn’t care anymore, “So long as Sam got to bed on time and I kept my grades up, it was enough to ration out painkillers and remove all the booze, right? Stick that band-aid right on a bullet wound, that’ll do it!”

She’s shaking, her eyes wide, “You were dead, Dean.” It stills the room, stills the whole world, because those not-so-immortal words have never really been said, not in this reality. “You were dead and I- I hadn’t noticed anything was even wrong. It was easily the worst day of my entire life.”

“Oh, really?” he says numbly.

“Don’t.”

He doesn’t. “I’ll see someone.”

“You’re damn right, you will,” she says, not letting her voice break again. She brings him close to her, not really hugging but more keeping him in her arms, like she can keep him away from everything for the rest of their natural-born lives. He feels like he’s been scooped out and filled with Adele songs. It kinda sucks, to be honest.

“Can I go to my room, now?”

“You don’t want breakfast?”

“Not hungry.”

He’s face-down in his bed, bypassing Sam and Cas without even realising, or so he thinks until he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Dean? You okay?”

“Not really, Sammy,” Dean sighs.

His brother kisses his head before leaving to go back downstairs. He feels Cas’s presence long before the guy says anything.

“You never told me any of that,” he whispers, all the way across the room, still standing at the door like he’s afraid he might set Dean off again.

Dean shrugs, still face-down, “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

He hears Cas hmm to himself until he feels the bed give with his weight. They’re silent, uncomfortable for the first time in… well, since they met. “For what it’s worth, I’d give anything not to have you feel this.”

Dean looks up at him and holds Cas’s hand. He doesn’t wait for Cas to hold it back, just squeezes it tightly. Cas squeezes back even harder.

Maybe things might end up okay.


	24. home stretch it out already

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> um so this is early bc it's vcmpirecas's birthday for another forty minutes or so!!!!!!!!! enjoy my lovelies!! ^^

No one ever tells you how freakin’ terrifying booking a flight to a whole damn new life is (it is _not_ just his fear of flying… shut up). It’s not even just the prospect of moving away from everyone here, not just the fear of whether or not he is seriously in over his head at some fancy-pants place like goddamn _Columbia_. It’s the new lease of life. It’s the freedom that’s kinda killing him. That’s why he’s been sat in front of his stupid computer for the last four hours, racking his brain as to how he can possibly start a new life with any kind of independence when it feels like the very thought of being alone might kill him dead. The computer’s got him in a chokehold, that’s the only way to explain why he’s wasting so much time getting himself extra worked up, pickles on the side.

“Dean!” Sam bellows from downstairs, “Aren’t you coming, we’re gonna be late to your appointment!”

So maybe it’s procrastination. Can you blame him? Delaying the anxiety with, well, more anxiety. Different strokes, and all that.

Cas, however, has been nothing less than a saint through all this bullshit. It’s not every day that you find out your best friend/roommate tried to kill himself three years ago. As Dean always feared, every time it’s mentioned, Cas very deliberately steels himself, like he’s wound up ready to punch his way out. For Dean. He’s also really terrible at general sleuthing. There’s not clearing your browser history, and then there’s leaving up the stack of results from super fun recent google searches like:

  * treatment for depression
  * cheap treatment for depression
  * very cheap treatment for depression
  * trampolines
  * canvas things firemen use
  * cheap trampolines



Yadda yadda, you get the picture. He kinda gets it; he had no idea how to help Cas when the dysphoria got so bad he shook and couldn’t speak. Also had no idea how to help when it was bad enough to leave him in a general funk. Dean can wring out a good speech or two, but that doesn’t work so well on the day-to-day. So he’d researched. He was getting scarily good at it, too, what with the whole writerly ambitions and shit. Cas… Cas had his own system.

The impala’s indignant honk tells him he’s procrastinating and that procrastinating is no longer an option. He sighs, knowing rationally that putting off the inevitable are for men befallen to madness (thanks Roy) but he _is_ going to therapy, so it follows.

 

* * *

 

 

He walks into the clinic and all at once regrets every single moment that led to this one. Yes, even the good ones, even with his Mom, even meeting Cas. Sam’s hand snakes into his. No protests about how they’re both too old for this, pointless posturing that serves nothing except empty hands. He grips back, beyond grateful that he decided to take him along.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam says, leading him to the receptionist, “this is Dean Winchester, he’s got an appointment with Dr. Scrib- Schribe?” He turns to Dean, one eyebrow raised like this is all so easy, as the receptionist notes it down.

Dean looks around and it’s… okay, it’s not _that_ gross, and it’s not even really a clinic. There’s a waiting room and stuff, but it seems more like a badly-laid out office. Maybe a library. Either way, full of books and neglected plants. Literally. What he thought was a series of coffee tables are literally just stacks of books, almost melted together via some kinda pressurised event. Poor books. Cas would probably have a breakdown at this blatant mistreatment of books. Old habits die hard, etc.

“Dean Winchester?” he’s snapped out of it, whipping his head around to the baby-faced receptionist, his blue eyes sweet on him. “Dr. Schribe is ready for you now.”

Sam even elbows Dean back as the guy bites his lip to smile. Dean takes one look at the guy’s name tag and smile widely, subtly looking him up and down. “Thanks Alfie.”

The guy blushes but, as very cute as the guy is, it doesn’t sit right with Dean. Something else Dean needs to get the fuck over by the time he hits the Big Apple; Cas.

He walks into Dr. Schribe’s office (well, smaller office) looking back at Sam one last time, just to see if he can make a break for it. Then again, if any of his favourite movies speak the truth (and they probably do), running away from a therapist only proves your general nuttiness rather than proving your innocence. Sam gives him a thumbs up, right up on his tiptoes. Absently Dean wonders when his little brother will get his growth spurt, and of course the huge oak (oak? maybe? ironically Dean is not an expert on wood) door slams right in his face.

“Dean Winchester,” a voice sneers behind him, “I presume?”

Who the fuck still says presume, where is he?! “Ugh, yeah?” He turns to see what can only be described as a humanoid mole. No offence to moles. “Dr Schribe, I presume?”

Doc smiles like there’s a lemon slice under his lip. “Hmm, yes, take a seat, Dean.”

Dean looks around at the five or six seats in the room and opts for the chair rather than the chaise. Something, a weird inkling, if you will, tells him that lying down will not make this process any better and/or less creepy. He settles into the chair and immediately realises this was all an elaborate trap. It’s official. This guy is a weird spider monster and instead of webs he uses absurdly squishy chairs. Ooh that could be a cool-

“So, Dean, what brings you here?” Doc starts off. The halo of frizzy curls about his head does nothing to deflect from the unsettling poodle cardigan. Or the unsettling anything.

Dean decides to keep this casual. This doesn’t have to be anything he doesn’t want it to be. This guy gives him the heebs with a generous side of jeebs, so he won’t touch on the Incident just yet. This guy can earn his stripes elsewhere. “This an’ that,” he shrugs.

Doc nods, writing down far too much. Fuck. What did he give away? He peers over like he might read it, but Doc looks back up before he can see anything. Dean leans back again, staring out the window (which needs some serious fuckin’ dusting, honestly this place is disgusting).

“What is your relationship like with your mother?” he asks, out of the fucking blue. Dean flaps around the answer before maintaining his cool.

“It’s good.”

“It’s always been good?” Doc continues to fucking scribble, like this is boundless info Dean’s giving him. Maybe it is. Oh, fuck, what if it is?

“Well, I’m her kid, there’s always bound to be rough patches, but yeah, I trust her,” Smooth one, Winchester. He continues under his breath, “Trust her more than I trusted Dad, anyway.”

“Why’s that?” he says, begging for some Oedipal bullshit, probably.

Dean shrugs again, “He was an ass, simple as that.”

“Nothing’s every truly simple, Dean. Everyone has a story to tell,” he smiles that weird dry lemon smile, and it’s so goddamn unsettling.

Dean smiles back, “Not me.”

Doc leans back in his seat, troubled somehow, “Dean I’m sensing some resistance- ”

“Oh, you’re getting that huh? Guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks,” he smirks. This is fine, this is fuckin’ cake.

“Is there any other subject you’d like to talk about?” Doc sighs.

“My friends are pretty awesome,” Dean starts, because obviously there’s nothing to psychoanalyse about his band of merry nerds.

Yet Doc’s still settling in. “Tell me about them.”

Dean takes a look at the clock, the next forty minutes still looming, so… he tries, sorta, “Uh… okay. Well, there’s Sam, my kid brother, he’s the nerdiest dude I’ve ever met and I love him to pieces. Anna, I’ve known since I was a tyke, she’s- she’s amazing, passionate, talented, but she’s moving away to Michigan come whenever, so I don’t know- and Jo, her girlfriend, feisty fucker, kinda like an annoying cousin. Charlie, the sister I never asked for, she’s been there for me through… through everything, Hannah, who’s freaking terrifying but cool I guess, and Cas.”

“Cas?”

Dean clears his throat. “Castiel.”

“Would you like to expand?”

“Why?”

“You were able to give ample descriptions of all your other friends, I’m simply asking for the same courtesy for this ‘Casmiel’.”

“Cas- _ti-_ el. Aren’t therapists meant to be good listeners and shit?” Dean’s shifting in his seat because the room feels like it got a couple degrees colder.

“You haven’t expanded on this friend, I’m wondering if you actually like them.”

This guy must be a fuckin’ kook if he gets _that_ idea. “Of course I do, I- ”

“You? What?” Goading him. Like a fish already hooked on the bait. Goddammit.

“I… care about him.” It’s the truth. In its own special way.

“You care deeply about him?”

“Y-Yeah,” Dean breathes. He feels… like his bones are shifting under his knuckles.

“And you’re leaving, correct?”

“I-I’m, yeah, to New York.”

“Sounds like you’ve outgrown this Casriel, like maybe he hasn’t kept up with you. Many of us outgrow our friends, like toys, in order to develop, Dean. This is perfectly natural.”

Dean gets up from his seat, heart on fire, “It is fucking Castiel, clean your crusty ears out, and next time you wanna talk down to me, don’t charge my mother to do it!”

“Mr Winchester- ”

“Oh fuck you,” he flips him off as he slams the door behind him, startling Alfie at the front desk, and he doesn’t even care. He sees Sam sat reading a dog-eared Cosmo, not looking up.

Sam turns to the horoscopes. “So, how’d it go?”

“Shut up.”

“That good, huh?” Sam sighs, “It does say Aquarius will fall to some conflict today.”

As soon as they arrive home, Dean steps out of the impala, engine still running and slams the door open, not listening to Sam’s outburst of “What the hell, Dean?!”

Cas is doing the washing up, nose scrunched up in pure fury, either at the deciding fate of the chore wheel or a particularly resistant spot on that dish. Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. He turns Cas around, way too quickly (he almost gets a knee to the nuts for his trouble).

“Dean? What- ”

Dean grips tight and hugs him for a full minute. “You’re important to me, okay?”

“Thank you, Dean, but… the marigolds.”

 

* * *

 

 

Oh god the SAT’s. OH GOD THE SAT’s. Dean’s pretty sure that the SAT’s and the entire process leading up to them is the most efficient torture mechanism ever created. Cas once hypothesised that they might’ve been dreamt up by an ex-Guantanamo Bay warden. Charlie said it was Donald Trump. Anna said something about adversary building character but she probably wasn’t actually paying attention to the conversation or anything on account of Jo’s existence. Dean’d be annoyed if he wasn’t simultaneously relieved and happy for the two losers.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck shitting turtle m _otherfucker!!!!_ ”

Ah, the sweet sound of Mario Kart. Dean copied Bowser’s signature growl-laugh as he bypassed the still-spinning Peach. “We must bend to our inabilities lest they cause our downfalls, dear Icarus.”

Oh yeah, and he’d taken to talking like a newly-discovered Shakespeare because, well, SAT’s.

“Lest talking, moreth playing, Dean,” Cas deadpanned, never taking his eyes off the screen.

Charlie hooted as Cas overtook Bowser, little Toad jumping about like a hooligan. “Never took you for Toad, Cas. Figured you were more of a Luigi type.”

“I feel that Toad’s expression reflects my sense of inner sanctum whilst playing this game,” Cas mused, “And I like his hat.”

He couldn’t see but what he heard was 99% certainly Charlie falling forward giggling, sending cheese balls everywhere. “Dude, you’re cleaning that up.”

“Nuh-uh, I’m a _guest_ , you have to clean up after me or else that’s bad hostessing.”

Cas sighed long-sufferingly, still beating them both without even breaking a sweat, “I’m afraid she’s correct, Dean. We’d hate to be bad hostesses.”

Now, four months ago, if Dean had heard Cas refer to himself, in public no less, as anything with feminine connotations, he’d’ve had the blankets and deep meaningful speeches on standby. And yet, here he was. Comfortable. Joking. Fucking _joking_.

Dean couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when he has to see Cas every day, see him happy with himself and the world around him.

He can’t leave.

 

* * *

 

 

Obviously the end of exams means a celebratory trip to the Roadhouse, along with most of their stupid raucous year (shut up, SAT word lists are hard to get out of your head). You know that point where you’re so tired you flip right back over into hyper until you crash? Yeah, now imagine that with forty teenagers who’ve been strung out for a full year and that’s the situation.

“Is that Michael making out with Gordon?” Hannah asks while she is curled into herself.

Dean’s head whips right around like the fucking owl he is to watch- fucking _Michael Radiant Breath Even In the Morning Cohen_ making out with Gordon Walker. He scoffs in absolute disgust. “What bozo’s.”

Weirder than this (unbelievable that anything could be weirder) is how calm Cas is. He takes one cursory look and turns back around to his milkshake (he’s been converted to the mint monstrosity; either that or his taste buds have disappeared along with his sense of propriety. “I think it’s nice.”

“What?!” Dean and Hannah say, the first and last time they will ever agree on anything completely.

“Dean check his head for fever,” Hannah says, very seriously. He would take her seriously, too, except the neon orange mohair sweater is maybe a bit too much. Did she murder the Lorax for that thing?

“Both of you stop,” Cas rolls his eyes, “Why would I care what either of them do in their personal lives? I’m glad they’ve gotten their heads out of their asses. At least they can be happy.”

Dean doesn’t know whether that’s a dig at himself or Hannah, but Hannah sure does sink into her seat. That, of course is when Charlie arrives, looking- well, to be honest, she looks pretty fuckin’ badass. Leather jacket and scarf around her neck, carry-on in her hands, grim smile on her face. Oh no.

“Hey guys.”

“Why do you look so well-rested?” Anna cries.

“Is that lipstick?” Jo teases

“Charlie,” Hannah breathes.

A regular chorus. Dean knows what this is. “You weren’t even gonna say goodbye?”

Charlie smiles, cupping his face before slapping his cheek lightly. “I hate goodbyes, you nerds know that,” she takes a deep breath, “Early admish to MIT isn’t the end of the world anyhow. I’ll be back in a few weeks once I’m settled and shit.”

She turns to Hannah and smiles, getting all teary-eyed. Oh NO. “Charlie?” Hannah can’t quite manage anything else.

“Whatever, I’ve gotta do this, um…” she puffs up her chest like that’ll do anything. “Hannah Schmidt, I love you. I really fucking love you. You make a girl go all monogamous and shit.”

“Romantic,” Anna notes, snapping a Red Vine off and chewing in intrigue. This… yeah, this is unorthodox, even for Charlie. Really going off-script here.

Hannah doesn’t know what to say either, so she just climbs right over Anna and Jo, disgusting love birds that they are, and adjusts her sweater slightly. Charlie leans in, maybe to help, but Hannah just throws herself at her, grasping for dear life as she kisses her senseless. Their table cheers, even louder than the non-regular losers.

Ellen comes out and sighs, “Could some of you check your goddamn hormones at the door?”

Charlie whispers something to Hannah then pulls back, crying full on but still smiling on through it like the dumbass trooper that she is. “See you guys in a bit! Don’t forget me!”

She rushes out, and- and Dean’s gotta follow her, fuckin’ obviously.

“Charlie!!!”

She turns around and hugs him quickly before rushing off again, so he pulls at her wrist, “Stop, stop, Charlie, why did you do that?”

“Well, Dean, when people want to go places, they exchange currency for goods and services, like plane tickets and Alanis Morissette albums- ”

“Don’t be a smartass. That rom-com bullshit in there, why’d you- how did you do that?” He sounds like such a kid, it’d be embarrassing if he didn’t absolutely need to know. “You’re leaving, how can you say goodbye like that?”

“Because I couldn’t stand the idea that she didn’t know,” she smiles, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, same one she slapped, to make a point maybe. “You know how it goes.”

He watches her drive off in a rush, her mom’s tires in need of re-pumping, and he can’t get what she said out of his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean and Cas get home, bone-tired and happy, to a letter shoved under the door. The stamp of Michigan State making it something very real and official. When Cas picks it up, he practically rent-a-ghost’s out of there, pitching it straight to their room.

He gets to the top of the stairs when he hears Cas make a noise he’s never heard him make before. It’s such a surprising sound that Dean double-times it to find Cas covering his mouth, his huge blue eyes roving the page. It’s good. It’s fucking _good_.

“I got in,” he whispers, unnecessary, because of course he did. He’s been working on his portfolio for years, and any college board with half a brain between them would know how incredible he is.

So- so now Cas is leaving too. “Congrats, Cas,” Dean breathes, high and reedy.

Cas tilts his head at Dean, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s… I’m so happy for you, man,” Dean chickens out, going to hug Cas.

“That’s not your happy face, Dean,” Cas’s voice low with concern, enough to rile Dean up any other time, but it’s been a rough goddamn day, it truly has. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what, man? I’m thrilled.” He does not sound thrilled, which Cas would be able to tell even if it wasn’t hilariously obvious.

“Stop lying,” Cas grits out.

Dean cries out, back on stage again, not serious, but serious, “Stop telling me what I’m doing! I’m not lying!”

“Dean why- why aren’t you happy for me?”

“Cas, I am!”

“You’re not, I- I know you, Dean, I know there’s something, I can hear it in your voice, your face, your everything…” Cas tries to move closer and Dean instinctively steps back, like he’s a hot stove ready to burn the only person in this room that he cares about, “Something’s wrong and you’re not telling me, why?”

“Don’t go,” Dean says, quiet enough “Just… stay with me.”

Cas sounds so clear and stoic, you wouldn’t imagine how furious he is. “You’re the one that’s leaving, Dean.”

“You’ll have a new life. Michigan is freakin’ amazing, s’why they get amazing people like Anna, like you…” he promised himself he would be stronger than this, not break down like this in front of Cas, he’s so fucking pathetic, “God, I can’t- I can’t do this, Cas.” His voice breaks. “I… love you, Cas. I love you so much it spins me upside down and every which way. I feel so sick when I’m without you, like all the oxygen in the world’s not mine to breathe anymore. I mean- I wrote a fucking book about you, Cas!” he bursts like it’s a joke, and if Cas’s unmoving expression is anything to go by, maybe he should try pretending it is, “And I don’t want to be where you aren’t. I just- I just wanna be with you Cas, anyway I can, but if you don’t… feel that way, man, I don’t. I love you. I want you anyway you’ll have me.” Cas is just… standing there. “Fuck, Cas, say something.”

“No.”

Dean’s heart sinks like a stone. “No?”

“No, Dean,” Cas says, walking over to him, staring him right in the face and- Oh. Oh God. He’s so… how could he not see this? Cas smiles this secret little smile, and it’s Dean’s smile, it’s _his_ , it’s because of him that smile exists, just him. He curls his fingers around Dean’s neck, running the nails over the bristles there. Dean shivers ever so slightly, feeling the blush hint at his cheeks.

Cas leans up and crashes their faces together, nearly breaking Dean’s steadily running nose. They laugh breathlessly, and they try again, and somehow the two of them manage to fucking strategise. Cas kisses him slow, like an oath, something solemn and meaningful, before Dean gets swept up in the fact that Cas- Cas is kissing him, he’s kissing Cas, in their shared bedroom, next to a pile of dirty socks. It's lovely. It is so goddamn lovely. 

“Sorry I’m gross,” Dean sighs, letting Cas track long sucking kisses down his neck.

“You are the furthest thing from gross,” Cas murmurs against his skin.

“Is this real?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“You promise?”

Cas pulls him down, keeping his hands either side of his face to look directly at him, “Of course, Dean, now please be quiet and kiss me.”

Dean smiles so wide his face is sure to crack. He’s pretty fuckin’ amenable to _that_ idea.


	25. summer lovin’, may be our last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we made it!!! hooray! warnings: some naughty stuff at the end, but otherwise, thank you so much and ENJOY!

_~~Dear Charlie~~ , nope, fuckin' terrible. _

_~~Yo, C-Span~~ , is he five? _

_What’s up, fuzzball, how’s life?_

_Columbia’s chasing me up like a dog with a bone and I haven’t even finished Swann’s Way yet (thanks for the extra cool reading list btw). Sam’s doing great, he’s joined wrestling (I didn’t even know they allowed runts like him into wrestling teams, but hey, it worked for me). Mom’s happy and stressed, which she tells us has been her state of being since she had me so I guess that’s good? She naps occasionally, I reckon. And Cas… Cas got into Michigan, just in case you couldn’t hear him over the squeals on the phone. Pretty sure you raised at least three neighbourhood dog up from the dead over here. No one needs a reboot of Salem’s Lot, dude, seriously._

_And yes, the Cas department is… it’s good. Really good. Painfully bad and sappy poetry-inspiring, so I’ll spare you the cavities and just… say it’s good! It’s good. God, Charlie, it’s so good. I’m gonna marry that messy boy one day, just mark my words. I know what you’d say if you were here, something along the lines of “you’re too young” or whatever responsible thing those smartasses got you learning up there in the big city. And.. I know. I know I’m only 18, and he’s only 18 and we’ve got the rest of our lives, and all that other bullshit people tell you when you’re 18, and it’s not like I’ve got the ring or anything. Yet. Because, fuck it Charlie, when you know, you_ **_know_ ** _. It’s in the stars and the sea and everything around you, the coffee smells better, the birds aren’t fucking irritants. And he smells so good. And I don’t even know how that’s possible what with the whole, y’know, sharing the same shower gel and shit. He just… smells good. Okay, now I’ll stop, and you can send me the dental bill when your teeth fall out._

_How’s Hannah coping, by the way? She joining you up there anytime soon??? I know Jo’s been pining something awful since Anna left, but she’s been up there constantly so I don’t know… I hope you guys are good. I hope you make it, or you guys at least part amicably. Please. I just got her to kind of like me._

_Lots of love and kisses. The manly kind. Extra slobber. Don’t save the world too much while you’re up there, leave some for me._

_Dean-o. xxx_

It’s been one blissful month since graduation. All they’ve done is read and prepare and get ready for the move to New York and just being around each other while they all still can. The Winchester clan is a hard one to break up, ask anyone. That includes Cas, of course. He’s been… fucking glorious is too much of an understatement. He’s stayed up listening to Dean read to him, done the lion’s share of work around the house, and generally become the favourite son. Mary’s probably gonna cry more when Cas heads off to Michigan than when Dean heads off to Columbia. It’s all so perfect, and on a night like this, when Sam’s spending the week at his little pal Luke’s place up in town and Mom’s picking up as many shifts as possible so she can get whatever she wants once Dean’s setting off, Dean and Cas have the space and time to just _be_.

Speaking of which- Dean heads out of the house to find Cas where he usually is these days around this time, the sun setting over the field and casting glowing broad strokes across the grass and stripes in the sky throwing shadows everywhere. Cas sits there on the porch, properly cushioned with a mountain of blankets, and sketches everything. His nose is all squished up and his glasses (oh god the goddamn beautiful gift of the glasses) keep falling down his lovely nose. Chuck had never even taken Cas to an optometrist, but when Mary caught Cas squinting at the TV one night they realised the boy was short-sighted as they come. Just another perk of being part of the Winchester clan.

Dean comes up behind him and announced himself by pressing a kiss to Cas’s head, his soft curls tickling Dean’s nose. “Hey, Hopper, wanna come inside for some food later?”

“In a minute, the yellows are in top form tonight,” Cas murmurs. Dean settles in beside Cas. He’ll be another hour or so and as Dean feels the lump beside him- yep. That’s where he left _Swann’s Way_.

Cas looks out further over the fields and draws leisurely with pens Dean bought him as a one-month anniversary thing. Because they’re saps. And Dean is so hopelessly in love, Charlie will most certainly kick his ass the next time she sees him.

Dean hums as Cas absentmindedly runs his fingers through the bristles behind Dean’s ear as he looks out. “What did you want to watch tonight?”

“Hmm, I was thinking _X Files_ , season 4?” Dean yawns, finding his bookmark and sliding his finger between the pages. “Scully’s hair was so great in that season.”

“Her hair is fantastic in all seasons, really,” Cas smiles.

Dean hums again, “Yeah, but… season four.”

Cas pauses, thinks for a bit. The air’s light and breezy. “I was getting into _Gilmore Girls_.”

“What season?”

“Three.”

“ _Gilmore Girls_ it is.”

“Thank you,” Cas strokes his hair again and presses a kiss on top.

They sit there in silence, Dean using one hand to prop up his tome and the other the scratch along Cas’s bare thigh, all beautiful and _there_ and accessible to him (only him, there’s that bite of possessiveness). He reads, Cas draws, and time is still, just for them. It’s a nice fantasy, but Dean’s fantasies don’t always last forever.

They spend the evening ordering way too much Chinese food and watching television, interspersed with gentle touches and pauses for kissing because kissing is a required thing whenever Dean and Cas are in the same room. Cas wrote it in a charter, somewhere.

Sometime between midnight and two, Dean pulls away from Cas and lets him sleep on. He finds a blanket and beat-up pillows and tucks him in, making sure his feet are carefully buried in between the couch cushions so they don’t get cold. He kisses his eyelid, gently as he can, and heads upstairs to run a bath.

There’s something about summer, about not worrying about classes or anything, really, that makes you do weird shit at weird times. Dean’s accidentally gotten into the habit of taking baths for hours while reading just after midnight. He likes being prune-y, and really it’s all Dostoevsky’s fault. He uses bath bombs that Cas got him, making the water look like a liquid galaxy. His dick almost looks like a planet of some kind, which makes him laugh and the galaxy shimmers with the movement.

The door creaks and Cas comes in, rubbing his eyes with sleep and only in his boxers and shirt.

“Bath time?” he yawns.

Dean doesn’t say anything, just smiles up at Cas. When he’s around him it’s just- he’s serene. He’s so goddamn happy. Cas smiles back at him and gestures for him to scoot up a bit.

It takes a bit of splashing and manoeuvring, but Cas finally gets in just behind Dean, soaking his clothes up to his chest.

Dean snuffs a laugh, “Hi.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas mumbles into his back. He kisses the little knobs on Dean’s spine, making him sigh and put his book down. “How are you?”

“I’d say I’m not too shabby right about now,” Dean moans as Cas makes his way to his neck, nipping every so often at the skin behind his ear, at his jaw, at his nape. “How you doin’?”

Cas just hums and continues kissing and biting and skating his fingers all over Dean’s wet skin. Dean’s never felt so safe in his life, which is, of course, a fucking terrifying concept. His boyfriend (god, he loves just _thinking_ that word) keeps licking his back and his neck, like he’s ready to devour him, and all Dean can think is _more, take as much as you want, I’m yours, I’m yours_.

Finally Cas just pulls Dean back against his chest and they sit there, in this tiny galaxy of theirs, as Cas traces patterns on Dean’s chest and kisses him everywhere his lips can reach him. Dean’s eyes are completely closed, so loose and relaxed and elated. So naturally he has to ruin it in 0.23 seconds.

He breathes out, “God, I’m gonna miss you when I’m gone,” and the touches stop. Like, we’re talkin’ screeching halt, here.

Dean’s eyes open because he knows, he can feel Cas stiffen up completely. The spell is broken. They weren’t gonna ever actually talk about Dean leaving before Cas, college was gonna be a distant intangible concept until the day he left, and they’d, albeit silently, agreed to, y’know, not fucking talk about it. Live in the bubble for as long as they could. And Dean, of all people, was the one to burst it.

“Cas, fuck, I’m sorry,” he starts but Cas shakes his head against Dean’s back.

“It’s fine, Dean,” his voice cracks, “I just- I only just…” Dean lets him stop there, he can feel the shuddering breath at his neck. “I only just found you. I can’t- can’t- ”

Dean’s heart breaks anytime Cas is sad, he should really take out some kind of insurance for the damn thing, “Can’t what? Cas?”

“I can’t lose you, Dean. Not after all this…”

That gets Dean to stop in his tracks. “Lose me?”

“New York is a big place, I don’t… expect you to just sit around and wait for me to get my shit together. I don’t want you to put your life on hold for me, why- why should you?” The tears are coming hot and fast and Dean- he doesn’t know what to do.

“Cas,” he says slowly, “stop.”

“No, Dean, we need to- talk, or, or something, I’m sorry, I- I ruined your bath- ”

“Cas, I love you.”

“I know, but- ”

“No, no buts,” he says, getting out of the bath in all his dangly glory. He pulls Cas up with him and steps them both out of the bath water, not bothering to drain it. The sparkles have lost their fade anyway.

Dean gets a couple towels off the radiator and carefully gets Cas’s wet clothes off of him, scrubbing the towels over his hair and chest and getting him warm again. Cas doesn’t object so he leads him into their room instead of talking anymore.

Over the last few months, between living together, being “together” and just, generally being Dean and Cas, this isn’t exactly the first time they’ve seen each other naked. In fact, being naked hasn’t been all that shocking for either of them for a while. It’s not like they ever talk about it, but it’s just… fine. Non-sexual nakedness just works for both of them, whether Dean’s gone commando and is getting changed or Cas is just coming out of the shower and wants to air-dry, or both of them just want to cuddle, feel each other’s skin as they’re falling asleep. It evolved so slowly that it goes completely unseen now. It’s weird to some, whatever, but it’s home. Sexual nakedness, however, hasn’t really been much of a conversation. They’ve touched, sure, they’re eighteen and hormonal and super attracted to each other (holy **hell** , are they attracted to each other). Mary made them be extra careful, every so often sitting between them, not saying anything except a silent “not ready to be a grandma” look whenever Dean was getting all moony-eyed. Dean has sort of stood fast by the internal rule of ‘if Cas doesn’t initiate it, it doesn’t happen’.

But here they are, naked, the air’s charged and goddamnit, Cas still has no idea what Dean would do for him, still. He knows Cas is nervous about this kind of thing. He knows how sensitive he is about his equipment, about what’s expected of him, of what he feels versus what he wants. It’s enough of a headache without Dean adding to it, so it’s just… never come up. So to speak.

Cas backs up onto the bed. At least one of them’s making a move. Dean follows him, trailing a track down Cas’s arm from his shoulder to his wrist, taking his palm and facing it up. He kisses it, long and hard. Cas’s other hand comes up to cup Dean’s face, still a little damp. Dean moves back for a second and Cas pulls his hand, further down, much further down than Dean’s ever ventured.

Dean darts his eyes up, frantic, scared out of his wits, “A-are you sure?”

Cas nods slowly, never breaking eye contact, pushing Dean’s hand down further.

“Cas, please, are you ready for that?”

“Something like it,” Cas breathes, stuttered as he pushes Dean’s heel of his hand into little circles. “Can we go a little slow?”

“Yes, please, yes,” Dean sighs, kissing him, taking his hand back and holding Cas’s face like he’s precious, like he’ll fly away somewhere. He kisses down Cas’s neck, “As slow as you like, I can miss my first week of class, if you want?”

Cas laughs, breathless, “If you insist.”

Dean keeps going, kissing down Cas’s chest, his tongue circling each nipple so that Cas arches into him with choked-out gasps, “And here I thought those things were useless,” he sighs and Dean laughs against Cas’s neck.

The laughs fall away once Cas pulls Dean’s hand back, little circles, fast fast slow and sighing. He can tell it’s getting Cas _somewhere_ but not far enough. Dean’s uncoordinated, and out of practice, and eighteen, so he’s not actually very good at this.

He strokes along Cas’s back, kissing him fiercely, fighting to, anyway, as Cas bites his lip, crying out and whining as he does. “Cas- Cas, hang on, wait- ”

“Dean, no, momentum, we need momentum…”

“Get on top, just for a sec, can you- ”

“Wait, hold on,” Cas clambers on top and Dean bangs his head, “oh fuck, are you alright? Dean?!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, here,” he settles Cas on his leg, the hairs getting sticky as Cas bucks his hips. “Is that- is that good?”

Cas doesn’t answer, closing his eyes and clawing his nails down Dean’s sides. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Dean…”

“I’ve got you, Cas, I’m here,” Dean groans, lost in the expression on Cas’s face.

Cas whines, frustrated, his mouth open so slightly, “I’ve got you, too.”

Cas arches his back a little before collapsing onto Dean’s chest, jumping a little from the aftershocks. Dean holds him close, kissing every single inch of pink, warm skin, every part of Cas he can touch. He cards his fingers through Cas’s hair, feeling his eyes get wet as he kisses his head a hundred times in quick succession.

“Cas, god, you will never lose me, okay?” Dean says, quiet as anything. The sky’s a dark lavender outside, and Cas stirs a little, scratching a light smiley face into Dean’s freckled chest. “Please, please believe me.”

“I believe you, Dean,” Cas sighs, “I really do.”

Dean pulls him closer, his arms tight around the body above him, surrounding him. He smells like Cas, his hands and his skin smell like him. Cas settles in, nuzzling his neck and kissing the tendons there before trailing off and letting sleep take him. The peacefulness irons out every grumpy line on his face.

Dean’s happy. It’s not all tied up in a bow, but he has a clean bill of health, all his teeth and someone he loves in his arms. Not too bad for a Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello my darling readers, THANK YOU SO SO MUCH i love you and i love this story and i am gonna miss it so so much. i have been overwhelmed by the response and the only thing it's done is convince me even more of how much more trans representation is needed in media/everywhere. thank you so much for your kind words, your support, your readership and your awesomeness. 
> 
> to the people that told me their stories: i love you and i am so fucking proud of you. you are masterpieces and anyone who says otherwise can come and fucking fight me. 
> 
> to my darlings, maddi holyhael, emma psychcas, lauren starwqrs, andrea gazetiel and anna anastiel, thank you for reading and sharing and generally keeping my mood and life up. you're all incredible and i love you. 
> 
> to re-iterate what i mentioned in the tags, i am so not an authority on trans issues, some awesome resources and kickass folks to talk to about this issues are:  
> http://www.transpeoplespeak.org  
> http://www.jenniferboylan.net  
> http://www.advocate.com/commentary/2014/11/20/year-trans-voices
> 
> AND very importantly, if you are trans/genderqueer/more of an authority on this than i am and see any errors or misinformation abound in this fic DO NOT HESITATE CALLING ME OUT IN THE COMMENTS i am SERIOUS i will rectify any funny business IMMEDIATELY


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